


you may be as different as the sun and the moon, but you need him, as he needs you

by pandizzy



Series: Elia [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Tourney at Harrenhal, Elia Martell Lives, Elia Martell-centric, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Godswood Sex, House Martell, House Stark, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: "My father is mad and my house is dying. Tell the world that the dragon prince will marry the trout lady and that we will need the wolf and the sun with us. Meet us in the bat’s tourney to bring peace into this bleeding realm."Or: Elia marries Ned and everything changes.
Relationships: Barbrey Dustin/Benjen Stark, Elia Martell/Ned Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen/Catelyn Tully Stark, Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark
Series: Elia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556434
Comments: 119
Kudos: 334
Collections: Southern Renaissance (Dorne Renaissance)





	1. princess of dorne

**Author's Note:**

> I planned to write this in one go, to publish it all in one chapter, but then I reached 20k words and 40 pages on the docs app and I was like "Ehhhh maybe not"
> 
> Ok, so I CHANGED A LOT OF THINGS: Ned is just two years younger than Elia, not six.  
> Elia and Rhaegar never married, as is obvious  
> Elia is a proud woman, not the shrewd wife people always try to make her.  
> Elia is the main pov of this entire series! Sorry, not sorry!

Her mother comes to her rooms in the middle of the night.

The Princess of Dorne sends away Elia's maid, taking hold of the brush, and standing behind her daughter, caressing the soft and long black tresses with her free hand. It takes half a second before she starts brushing the dark ringlets, letting them fall like ink on her daughter’s back. Her mother has a weird expression on her face, almost angry, and Elia starts to wonder if she did something bad, or perhaps failed her mother in any way. Though a competent ruler, able to cast fear in her vassals’ hearts, the Princess of Dorne is nothing short of a great mother. For her three children, she shows nothing but love and affection, never raising her voice any more than necessary. 

But that day was not a great day in Elia’s opinion. The Lannisters twins, Jaime and Cersei, insisted on showing her and Oberyn around the keep, before finally relenting and bringing them to the nursery to meet their little brother, the one who brought an end to their mother’s life.

“I don’t understand,” her brother Oberyn said, staring at little Tyrion Lannister. The little boy was not the first babe Elia had seen, and he seemed just like any other, though a little too small, “This isn’t a monster. This is just a babe.”

“He _is_ a monster,” Cersei Lannister replied and her green eyes seemed full of hatred, “He killed my mother.”

Mayhaps, when Elia and Oberyn were entertained by the twins, Elia’s mother met the westerlands lord to talk about a potential betrothal between their children. That is the entire reason they even came to Casterly Rock, after all. Mayhaps, things did not go according to plan.

Loreza Martell stops brushing her daughter’s hair, staring at the pretty little dark locks that mirror her own with an almost grief to it.

“Mother?” Elia whispers and her mother looks up, surprised, almost as if she forgot her daughter was in the room with her, “Is something wrong?”

Loreza smiles, tightly, “No, sweetling. Nothing is wrong at all.”

Somehow, for the first time in her entire life, Elia does not believe her mother.

She licks her chapped lips, sighing, and tries to find the right words, “Are we leaving?”

“Yes, my child,” the Princess of Dorne says, “Lord Tywin has offended our family. It is best if we leave soon.”

Elia nods. She is only seventeen, having just obtained her womanhood, and though she would remain a child in her mother’s eyes forever, she knows a thing or two about politics and politeness. Tywin Lannister is a fool if he thinks he can offend the Martells, a powerful family, superior to him in every possible way. Dorne never joined the Seven Kingdoms in war, but in marriage, and that is their way.

“Are we going home?” Elia asks and she can’t help but note the tone of sadness in her voice.

Her mother frowns, slightly, also noting her mood, “Yes. Does that upset you?”

Elia hesitates. She knows her mother will never punish her for words spoken out of turn, the princess actually likes to hear her children’s opinions, and mold them to a more refined and highborn view. It’s one of the reasons that Oberyn is her favorite. Elia’s brother’s entire life is based on speaking out of turn.

And yet, she is afraid of her mother’s reaction to her suggestion. They never even considered it…

“Yes,” she answers and her mother’s face doesn’t betray her feelings, “It’s just… I really wanted to see Winterfell.”

For her entire life up until that point, Elia Martell had never left Dorne. Her health never allowed such straining travels and her mother was loathe to have her only daughter away from her line of sight. But, when Doran left for Norvos and came back with a wife, the Princess had to admit it was finally time that she find spouses for her two youngest children as well. And so, Elia, Oberyn and their father followed their mother into a ship to travel through all of Westeros, looking for single highborns to join in an alliance.

Elia had seen everything. She saw greener grass than those in Dorne, she saw mountains and met so many people, nobles and smallfolk alike. That journey had been a great adventure, the likes of which she only saw in books and bedtime stories.

They had gone through almost all of the Seven Kingdoms, only the Riverlands, Vale and the North remained, but Elia only wants to see one of them.

Her mother doesn’t say a word and Elia wonders if this is it, if this is the breaking point in their relationship. She can’t help the anxiety bubbling inside her stomach, the fear and the desire to take it all back and pretend she never said anything.

Instead, she stays quiet, staring at her mother through the mirror, and tries to read her face.

“Winterfell?” the princess murmurs, hesitant, “Why?

“I-I.” Elia finds herself unable to speak, “I really want to see the snow.”

“The snow?” her mother repeats.

“Yes,” Elia says and her confidence returns in waves, crashing and breaking into her, “I have never seen it, even during winter. They say Winterfell is beautiful when the snow hits the keep, like something out of a fairytale.”

Her mother pursers her pink lips and Elia can see that she is thinking, almost considering the idea, “We have no clothes for such a weather.”

“I’m sure Lord Stark can lend us some,” Elia says.

Loreza Martell sighs, leaning forward to hug her daughter. Elia sighs into the embrace, feeling her mother’s soft hands caressing her arms, allowing herself to be comforted. She knows the hug is helping the princess of Dorne more than it is helping her, but there is nothing wrong with hugging one’s mother.

“Lord Rickard has three sons,” her mother whispers and Elia knows that she is convinced, even if she will not say it aloud, “And a daughter. A wild she-wolf, if my reports are correct. I’m sure Oberyn would love to meet her.”

“I’m sure,” Elia answers, a blooming glee growing inside her chest.

* * *

The travel to Winterfell is much longer than Elia could have ever anticipated, and Oberyn makes sure to complain about it for the entire duration of it. The ride is tiring, even inside a wheelhouse, and Elia is afraid that her fragile health will force them to turn around and return to Dorne, but, as if blessed by the gods themselves, she does not cough or shiver, remaining perfectly healthy for the weeks that take them to arrive in Winterfell.

They make a stop at White Harbor first and Lady Manderly is gracious enough to lend them gowns and furs for the trip, though Lord Manderly is too fat to be of use to Elia's father and brother. Instead, his son, a little thinner than his father, lends his old hunting clothes for the princes.

Elia passes her hand over the thick fabric, unlike anything she has ever seen. She can’t say that Lady Manderly and her have the same fashion sense, but there is nothing to complain about when the clothes allow her to be warm under such frigid conditions. Elia says a hundred thanks to the woman and prays for her health when visiting White Harbor’s sept.

Alas, all visits must come to an end and they leave, taking the Manderlys clothes with them, promising to return on their way back. Lady Manderly waves her hand, as if that doesn’t matter, and says that they are a gift, so they have no excuses to come back.

“She only wants to be gracious,” her father says later that night when the entire family is huddled together inside the wheelhouse, “We will return them.”

Her mother only nods, drinking a glass of dornish red wine that they brought alongside their trip as a gift to the houses that would betroth their children to Elia and Oberyn.

“Why are we even here?” Oberyn complains, angry, “I thought we would be returning home!”

“Your sister wants to see it, darling,” her mother says, “Let her be.”

“Stop grumbling, Oberyn,” Elia murmurs, upset at her brother. Sometimes, he is so insufferable. She loves him with all her heart, but he has a tendency to ruin everything, “Think of the snow!”

Oberyn turns to Elia, but he doesn’t say anything. He could never go against her wishes, even if he didn’t agree with them. A year younger he is, but as protective as an older brother should be, especially in light of her frailed self. What she wanted, Oberyn got her, no matter what.

Later, when Elia is half asleep and her father’s snores fill the wheelhouse like a rumbling lion, she hears Oberyn whisper to their mother in such a rushed tone that it is clear he does not wish to be listened to. She strains her ears without meaning to, trying to catch their words.

“Do you plan to marry Elia to a Stark?” her brother asks, his voice low and offended.

“Maybe,” her mother answers, “I don’t know it yet.”

She can hear the wine swirling around the glass and her mother drinking and thinking and drinking. Oberyn stays quiet, something unusual for him, and waits for their mother to continue. Elia wants to open her eyes and talk to them herself, but her eyelids seem glued together and she can’t move.

“Lord Stark has three sons. Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. The third is little more than a babe and the first has been betrothed to Hoster Tully’s girl.”

“And the second?” Oberyn asks, almost peaceful. Their mother’s presence calms him well enough, Elia knows.

“Eddard,” her mother whispers, “A boy of five and ten, a little younger than you. He was fostered at the Eyrie for many years but has returned home to receive us. They say he is calm and intelligent, honorable even. Any woman will be lucky to marry him.”

“And Elia? Will she be such a woman?”

“I don’t know,” Mother says, “I wanted her to be Lady of Castely Rock, like Joanna and I had planned, but Lannister has offended us.”

“How so?” Oberyn asks and he has never sounded more like Doran than at that moment.

“He refused you and your sister for his children. _My daughter will marry prince Rhaegar and be queen,_ he said, as if you are not worthy of his precious golden girl. Can’t he see that you are perfect, that you are a son of Dorne, a prince in his own right? You are worth more than his Cersei and we were honoring him by just considering the prospect!” She pauses and takes a deep breath, shaking, “His words will haunt me till my dying breath. _If you truly want a Lannister for your Elia, Tyrion will be more than happy to be her husband.”_

“But Tyrion is only a babe!” Oberyn protests and their mother rushes him, lest he wake her and their father up, but Elia is already awake, pretending to be asleep.

“And a dwarf, as well,” her mother continues, “He insulted your sister, a princess of Dorne. If the gods are just, none of my descendants will marry into his house.”

“They don’t deserve her,” Oberyn says and he sounds too fierce for his age, “No one does.”

“No, they don’t,” her mother murmurs, ignoring the second part of Oberyn’s words, “No match has ever been made between the houses Martell and Stark. The North is so far from Dorne, I suppose our forefathers never even remembered them, but it will do us no harm to have an ally in Winterfell.” She sighs and Elia can hear her setting the wine glass aside, “For a moment, I thought about showing Lord Tywin how important she is, I thought about convincing the queen to betroth her son to my daughter. We are still friends, after all, and we write to each other often. Elia would be queen and her son would be a king.”

Elia can’t help but think about it. Marrying Prince Rhaegar, becoming queen, raising her son to succeed his father and rule the world. The idea is rather appealing, but it quickly dies inside her heart. Her mother doesn’t speak about her plan in a present sense, more like a past and fleeting idea, that never truly landed in mind.

Besides, if she had a son and a daughter, they would be expected to marry one another and that is not something she’d want for them. It’s wrong, and a sin in the eyes of the gods, no matter what the exceptionalists Targaryens say. Rhaegar’s own mother and father are brother and sister.

“The Targaryens are mad,” Oberyn says, wilful.

“Yes, I know. You can never trust a Targaryen,” their mother answers, not at all amused by his words, “But it doesn’t matter now. Let Tywin Lannister have this mad goodson, I don’t care. I only want your sister to be happy.”

"So do I," Oberyn murmurs and that is the end of their talk.

They reach Winterfell the next day, waiting for its grandiose gates to open, but the wheelhouse is too big to fit and so Elia and her family must walk inside, meeting the lord and his children halfway through. Elia is wearing Lady Manderly's pretty green dress, one that tightens around her body just enough, and she is wearing her mother's ruby necklace, adorned with gold. She must look rich, or otherworldly. Her dusty dornish skin makes her glow amidst the pale northerners.

"My princess," the Lord of Winterfell says, "Welcome to my home. Your visit is nothing short of a delight."

"Thank you, my lord," her mother says, pretending not to shiver inside Lady Manderly's red gown. Thankfully, none of the northerners comment on it.

Her father introduces himself to Lyarra Stark, the consort and cousin to Lord Stark, and she smiles sweetly at him. Elia stands next to her and takes in the northern ruling family.

Lord Stark is a full head taller than her parents, with a lean and swift body. He has ruled for many years, almost as long as her mother, and his vassals both fear and respect him. Elia can see why, when he towers over her like a giant. His enemies must always look up when he kills them. His wife looks almost exactly like him, though her hair doesn't have as many gray threads and her laughing wrinkles seem more pronounced.

They have four children, three boys, and one girl. Brandon, the eldest, is only a year younger than Elia and the same age as her brother, but he already seems on the brink of manhood, nearly the same height as his father. He curtsies for her mother and kisses Elia's hand, whispering a polite greeting against her skin. He's handsome or at least will be when he is older, and she knows the Tully girl will not find a less plain husband in the North.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, princess," says the secondborn, Eddard. He's shorter than his brother but still taller than Elia. He is fifteen, not yet accustomed to his own growing body, and his brown hair grows in wisps across his face. All northerners seem to have beards, as far Elia knows, and she wonders when will young Eddard follow his father's footsteps. She looks at Lord Rickard, seeing his long and full beard, slowly turning gray with the pass of the years.

"A pleasure to meet you too, my lord," she whispers and Eddard's cheeks redden. It must be the first time someone has ever called him lord, "Winterfell is beautiful."

"It truly is," Eddard replies, looking around. The castle isactually beautiful, high and old. If the legends are true, Winterfell is one of the oldest keeps in Westeros, older even than Sunspear, built by Brandon the Builder himself during the Age of Heroes. Elia knows that by just standing there, during a meeting between the ruling houses of Dorne and the North, she is experiencing history, "You must see it during winter, princess. The snow and the castle will take your breath away."

Elia is already seeing the snow and the castle. She feels the tiny cold flakes hitting her head, melting in her hair and sliding down the locks, weighing them down. This snow is the complete opposite of sand, wet and soft, like a fluffy cake.

"I fear I may not see such northern winter in my life, my lord," she says, honest, “This is my first time crossing beyond the Neck.”

"I suppose we’ll just have to invite you again, princess," Eddard says and his voice is as honest as hers.

Elia smiles and Eddard smiles back. He has a pretty smile, with deep dimples on his cheeks, gray eyes shining.

Next to her, Oberyn kisses the back of Lady Lyanna's hand and she giggles, perhaps to something he whispered in secret to her. The little lady is wearing a pretty northern blue dress and there is a winter rose attached to her braids. She is very pretty and Elia knows that she will be a great beauty once she grows.

Benjen, the youngest at ten, seems rather lost, with dark brown hair falling into his eyes. He reminds Elia of a few of the lowborn children in the Water Gardens, desperately trying to find themselves in a world too big for them.

Elia turns to her mother, expecting to see her in talks with Lord Stark, or even, perhaps, his wife, finding instead the Princess of Dorne staring at her daughter alongside the Warden of the North, brown eyes shining with pride and glee.

"Princess," continues Eddard, not noticing his father or her mother's gaze fixated at them, "Allow me to show you to your rooms."

Elia nods, unable to say a word, and accepts Eddard's offered arm. He's not strong like a warrior, but she supposes it must be because he is so young, there is still time for him to grow muscles yet.

They walk through the courtyard, behind her mother and Lord Stark, her father and Lady Stark, hand in hand as rulers and consorts must do during visits. Elia sees Brandon Stark standing awkwardly in front of them, not knowing what to do, and she realizes that, as the eldest son, he should be the one leading her, not Eddard. She looks behind her shoulder and sees Oberyn, arm in arm with Lyanna Stark. He winks at her and Elia smiles at him.

Still smiling, Elia turns to her companion. Eddard is taller than her, mayhaps a head or a head and a half, she can't be sure. He's not as handsome as his brother, but there is still something about him that catches her eye. There is a seriousness to him and an intelligent sheen in his gaze. _He must know everything,_ Elia thinks, amazed, _I must ask him a million questions._

"The North is so different from Dorne," Elia says, looking around herself and she is not wrong. In Dorne, she could often taste the sand in her mouth and the sky was always blue, the sun shining high. She had seen half a dozen rains during her lifetime and none were long enough to be memorable. The northern sky is gray and it feels as if the sun doesn't hit them directly, almost as like they are in an eternal state of semi-darkness.

"I suppose so, princess," Eddard murmurs, looking around as well, "But I fear I can't give you an honest opinion. I have never been to Dorne."

Elia already knew that. Their visit to Winterfell is the first time any of the two ruling families have visited the other's ancestral seat or even their land.

"You must," she states, placing another hand on Eddard's arms, "Some say Dorne is an arid wasteland, but I can assure you, my lord, it is not. My homeland is beautiful and full of rich history. There are rivers and mountains, the like of which you have never seen anywhere else in the world."

"I imagine there must be," Eddard responds, "Though I fear I will not be welcomed by the dornish. No northerner has ever been there."

"Then I will be your guide," Elia says, "To protect you."

"I'm sure I could not have a more gracious guide, princess," Eddard answers and Elia blushes.

He is gentle, she notices, and kind. Elia has never met a more thoughtful fifteen-year-old.

She looks around her, the stone walls rising above her head. Winterfell is much different to Sunspear. The walls are large and thick, built not to be pretty or anything, but to protect against the elements. She imagines that such a building will be very useful during the peak of winter when the winds blow cold and the snow falls like a heavy blanket over the people’s heads.

Winterfell is not supposed to be beautiful, to attract small lords and pretty ladies to the winter’s court. It’s supposed to be like a mother, she thinks, guarding its children, protecting them from the world and frightening their enemies. It would be marvelous to grow up here, Elia assumes. There is nowhere else a child could feel safer.

"Have you missed Winterfell during your years at the Eyrie, my lord?" she asks, turning to her companion.

Eddard looks at her, "In a way, I suppose," he says, "I have lived there for since I was eight. In three years time, I will be allowed to return here and stay indefinitely, but I also consider the Arryn's seat to be my home. Lord Arryn has no sons of his own and he took Robert and me in as a father should."

 _Robert._ He must mean Robert Baratheon, another ward of Jon Arryn. The little lord of Storm's End already has a reputation following him, despite his young age. Elia has never met him, but she hears enough to know that he is anything but like his friend. His father is a cousin of the king, Steffon. They say they are as close as brothers.

"Many people divide their time between their birthplace and their fostered home," Elia says.

Eddard nods and his thoughts seem far away.

"Yes, princess," he murmurs, "They do."

He stops and Elia realizes that they have reached a door inside the keep, a large and wooden door that probably leads to her bedroom. She blushes deeply and her cheeks burn as intense as a thousand sun. They must have left their retinue a very long time before and she had failed to notice it, so enthralled by Lord Eddard.

"It seems we must leave each other’s company,” Elia says and she can hear the almost mourning tone in her voice.

“Yes,” Eddard murmurs, looking at her chamber’s door as if it was a vicious enemy he must defeat in battle, “My father will be having a feast in your mother’s honor tonight.”

“I thought he would be,” replies Elia. She looks at Eddard beneath her eyelashes and sees, truly, that his handsomeness is not on his face, but on his heart, “Will you be dancing with me tonight, Lord Eddard?”

Eddard blinks and looks down, and Elia notes that she has not removed one of her hands from his arm, her finger remaining firm on his forearm, a few inches away from her other hand. She removes it with a shy smile, looking down at their feet.

“I-I,” Eddard stutters and his face is red with embarrassment, but a second passes and his shyness melts away, leaving only the confident lad underneath, “Of course, princess, but with a condition.”

“And what is it?” Elia asks, curious.

Eddard smiles, “You must call me Ned.”

* * *

Lyanna Stark giggles as Oberyn Martell spins her around, her green skirts swirling around them like an emerald sea. Elia smiles, almost laughing when she sees the two wild things, joining together for one night of childish fun.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alight with life as the feasts rages on. Her mother's retinue tries to match the northerners in their cups, but alas, dornish red and northern ale are not so similar for her people to enjoy as well as their counterparts.

"Louder!" Brandon Stark shouts to the singers, well into his cups and his mother grimaces next to him, but she doesn't say anything. Her youngest son, Benjen, invites her to dance and she smiles for the first time in the entire night as he leads her away from the high table. Unlike Elia's parents, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell didn't seem too affectionate with one another.

Her mother is laughing as her father whispers into her ear, laying a hand on his shoulder as if wanting him to stop but also desiring him to continue with his pretty words.

Elia's mother had been allowed to marry for love. The deceased prince of Dorne loved his daughter and heir too much to not permit her marriage to a lesser dornish lord with pretty brown eyes and a poet's heart. A year later, Doran was born.

She looks at Eddard, sitting on the other end of the table. He doesn't seem to notice his mother's displeasure or his brother's drunkenness, but still, there is a frozen stillness to him and she notes that he hasn't touched his cup of ale all night.

In a moment of sudden boldness, Elia stands up. Though people still laugh and the singers still sing their pretty songs, she feels as if the entire hall has gone silent and there are only two people in this world; her and sweet Eddard.

 _It's Ned_ , she remembers, _He wants me to call him Ned._

Elia walks to Ned and he looks up as she approaches, a neutral expression on his long face. She is half afraid that he doesn't actually want to dance with her, that he was only being polite, but suddenly, he smiles and his gray eyes shine.

"Have you forgotten our deal, Ned?" she asks, cheekily and his smile grows bigger.

"I wouldn't dare to, princess," he answers, standing up as well. Ned offers her a hand, "Will you do me the honor?"

"It will be a pleasure," Elia replies, "But please, Ned, if I have to call you by your nickname, then you must call me Elia. _Princess_ is far too formal."

"Very well," he murmurs, bending to whispers into her ear, " _Elia."_

Gods, her name has never sounded sweeter than when spoken with his northern accent.

He guides her to where servants removed a handful of tables so people could dance, placing them next to his mother and her brother. Oberyn smiles at her, leading Lyanna across the floor. The singers stop, but quickly start again with the urging of Lord Rickard and the song that begins is not one that Elia can claim to recognize.

"It's a northern tune," Ned says, seeing the look on her face.

"I see," Elia murmurs, "You shall have to guide me. I don't know any northern dances."

"I'll try not to let you down, princess," he says, taking her in his arms.

Ned is not disrespectful, Elia knows. He places his hand on her waist like a proper lord, but she blushes all the same. Since they have arrived in Winterfell, Elia has done a lot of blushing.

Dornish dances are much different from northern ones, Elia notes. Most dornish dances are for people to dance alone, for theirs or others' pleasure. The sudden moving of hips and legs, arms and neck, with vivid songs and exotic instruments to accompany them. Whenever she dances at her mother’s court, Elia is always sweating buckets at the end.

But the North? Northern dances have a more gentle sway of soft movements and close bodies, to keep warm, she supposes, though she can’t exactly be sure. Somehow, she feels at ease with it all and, if she closes her eyes, Elia almost thinks that they are at their beloved godswoods, surrounded by weirwood trees and their gods of wind and stone. Ned moves her around the floor as if she is a little bird, flying over their heads. He isn’t as bold as her brother, twirling the lady Lyanna underneath his arm, or as clumsy as little Benjen, stepping on his mother’s feet. He feels like water and she is just a leaf, being dragged by the calm current.

Elia is wearing a blue wool dress, with long bell sleeves and a large skirt that pools at her feet when she sits, but as Ned spins their bodies together, her skirts rise up around them and it feels like the bright dornish sky is surrounding their souls. 

“Your hair,” Ned whispers in her ear, holding her body so close that she feels they might melt together.

Earlier that night, Lyanna Stark had knocked in Elia’s door, holding two dozen winter roses in her hands, the thorns cut out. A gift from her mother, she had said, handing the flowers to the dornish princess and Elia twisted them into a crown and braided her pretty dark curls up to hold it in place.

When she met her parents and Oberyn before they could go to the feast, her brother called her ‘a proper northern lady’ and Elia’s heart swelled at the thought.

“Do you like it?” she asks, shyly meeting his eyes.

Ned nods and a smile breaks his face, “Very much so.”

The northern song ends and a new one begins, but Elia barely notes it. They circle the hall with practiced steps as if they belonged in this dance, wrapped in each other’s arms. Ned’s hand continues dutifully on her waist and hand, but, for half a second, she wishes that one of them moved lower, bolder… 

Elia sends the thoughts away. It seems as if the cup of wine that she drank earlier has finally hit her.

The soft notes of a harp fills the air and Ned swirls them around in a circle. He’s so fast and yet so careful that she can’t help but fall in it, allowing herself to be moved around effortlessly. 

Lyanna’s soft giggles ring around the room and a man steals Lyarra Stark away from her pouting young son. At the same time, Lord Rickard bites into his boar’s leg and her father plants a kiss on her mother’s neck. In the middle of the floor, Ned spins Elia under his arm and her hair leaves its braids, spilling over her covered shoulders, but the winter’s crown remains in her head.

“I love your hair,” Ned whispers, or she thinks he does. It’s so hard to hear him with the blood flow roaring in her ears.

Suddenly, as quickly as they started, they stop and Elia stands in the middle of the floor, surrounded by his family and servants, caught in his embrace. Lyanna and Oberyn have left, sitting tiredly in the high table, trying to match each other in drinks and bawdy jokes. Lyarra Stark is with a third man before finally returning to her seat next to her husband’s and her mother and father have disappeared. Elia stares at her dance partner and sees him staring right back. His gray eyes never leave hers and they stare at one another for what feels like a hundred lifetimes.

“Come,” Ned says, tugging her hand, dragging her away.

“Where are we going?” Elia asks when they are so far from the Great Hall that she can barely hear the songs and the laughter from his men.

He doesn’t answer her, instead continuing to lead the way to a confined room inside the grand walls of Winterfell. Elia climbs downstairs, crosses corridors and passes open rooms. Suddenly, they are outside, the snowflakes falling around them, and Ned guides them to a forest within the castle. They have to cross almost an entire acre before they finally arrive at his desired place and Elia can’t help but be awed by it all. A white tree grows over them, a face carved in its ice-ly trunk and Elia’s jaw drops. She has never seen a godswood, there isn’t one in Sunspear, and it’s much different than what she has imagined.

The red leaves of the weirwood tree falls around them, joining similar and very different other leaves on the ground, covering the old packed earth and the hummus layer. It feels untouched as if no man had ever entered that place before that moment, though Elia knows the latter to be untrue.

She shivers, rubbing her hands together, and Ned, who up until that point was staring at his faith’s tree, turns back to her.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

Elia smiles, “A little,” she says and her breath comes out in white puffs along with her words.

“Here,” Ned murmurs, removing his cloak and placing it over her shoulder. The fabric is soft and warm against her skin, “Better?”

“Much,” Elia answers, “Thank you.”

He smiles. His smile is beautiful, but only because it’s so hard to coax out of him. His siblings make jokes or enchant their elders, but Ned remains as serious as ever. Here, she notes, where the two are alone, he seems to allow himself to be freer with his emotions and feelings. 

A cold wet feeling hits her cheek and Elia touches her face, removing her hand to find a snowflake, melting in the warmth of her fingers. _Snow._

She looks up and sees that it’s snowing, white powders hitting her and Ned, accumulating on the ground beneath them.

“I’ve never seen snow,” Elia admits, “I only heard tales of men getting buried in ten feet of it, or limbs lost to frostbite.”

“A summer snow is nothing to fear, princess,” he says and she smiles, looking at him.

“You are very kind, Ned,” Elia says, “Your future wife will be a very lucky woman.”

Ned nods and looks down at his feet. He takes a step towards her, grabbing her hands in his and Elia looks at him as if she is seeing him for the first time.

"My father has southron ambitions," he starts, "And our maester encourages them. He convinced my father to betroth my brother to Lord Tully's daughter, instead of one of our vassals. He thinks that we have been hiding in the North for far too long."

"My mother thinks the same," Elia states and she speaks without meaning to, "If Doran hadn't married a noblewoman from Norvos… I'm sure she would have brought him along on this trip."

"Parents…," he murmurs and they laugh, though there is nothing funny to his words. Elia thinks that they are laughing because of the other's presence, not because of humor.

"They always have plans for their children," she says, "I will try not to be the same, but alas… I'm only human."

"I hope I will be a good father," Ned murmurs, "I know I will love my children with all my heart."

"As will I," Elia says and she steps closer, bolded.

"There has never been a marriage between the Houses of Martell and Stark," Ned states, looking into her eyes with a sudden intensity that she almost averts her gaze, but, instead, Elia holds his stare, reaching deep into his soul.

"Everything has a beginning," Elia says, "Maybe that's why your lord father accepted her request for a visit 

"Yes." He laughs, "Exactly." He shakes his head, "I won't be Lord of Winterfell like Brandon, or be married to a high lord like Lyanna. My future is uncertain."

"Mine too," Elia murmurs, softly and he looks up at her, gray eyes shining but she can't tell the reason why.

"I'm a second son," Ned murmurs, "I have nothing to offer."

"And I'm a second child," Elia states, "All I have to offer is myself." Because she feels that she must, Elia adds, "And a very frail self at that. You will be on the bad end of the bargain, I assure you. The maesters are sure of it. I will not be able to give you many children."

"I don't care about that," Ned states and he sounds too sure for a fifteen-year-old, "I don't care. I will be happy with whatever. Elia…"

She kisses him.

It's not her first kiss or even her second. A bastard from one of her distant cousins had stolen one when she was twelve and, when a possible betrothal between her and the heir to House Dayne happened, he kissed her deeply to try and see if it would work. It didn't.

Unlike those, Ned seems completely unsure of himself, placing his hands awkwardly on her waist, but Elia wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer and closer until their bodies mash together and she can sink her hands on his soft brown hair.

He kisses her shyly and she has never felt more beautiful, more adored.

"I will talk to my mother," she whispers against his lips, "I will _convince_ her."

Ned nods and kisses her again.

* * *

Her mother comes to her rooms in the middle of the night and Elia is still awake, staring at the stone ceiling, thinking about a certain northern little lord with ice gray eyes.

"Are you sure of this?" her mother asks instead of a greeting, "You have known him for only a day."

Elia knows exactly what she is talking about. Their running from the hall did not go unnoticed to the inhabitants of Winterfell and words fly like the wind when a princess and a little lord are concerned.

She turns to her mother, sitting up on the bed, and sighs, placing her hands on her lap.

"Yes," she says, "I'm sure. I want to marry Eddard." She shakes her head slightly, "Many people have married those they met in the Sept. I should consider myself lucky, mother. I know I will love him in time. I know he will love me as well."

Loreza Martell sits on the bed, frowning slightly at the rough wool favored by the northerners. In Dorne, there is only silk sheets.

"He is a younger son," she starts, pushing a dark lock behind Elia's ear, "And you are a princess. You deserve more."

Elia smiles. She knows her mother means well and yet.

"I want him," Elia says, "You would have me marry Baelor Hightower and he is heir to a vassal house."

"The Hightowers are rich and powerful," her mother murmurs as if that is enough of a reason.

"And so are the Starks," Elia says, "I know they are not the richest, or what you wanted, but they ruled as Kings in the North for far longer than our house has ruled as Princes of Dorne. Eddard might not ascend to be Lord of Winterfell one day, but he has allies in the Eyrie and Storm's End. Our family will have many friends, far more than we could hope with House Hightower." She pauses, wondering if this is even necessary, "Or House Targaryen."

Her mother doesn't say anything. It's as if Elia has said nothing at all.

"I would have made you a queen," she murmurs, looking away from Elia and tears come to the princess' eyes, "You're my darling girl, Elia. I would give you the world. You need only to ask. Anything you want is yours." She sighs and rubs her cheeks, wiping the stubborn tears away, "If you want this Stark boy, I'll give him titles. A land. What is needed to make him worthy of you."

Elia smiles and her cheeks hurt from it. She lays her head on her mother's lap, the way she did when she was only a child and Elia came to her mother with all her secrets and fear. Loreza places a hand on her hair, caressing the soft black tresses.

"Your children will bear the Stark name," she whispers, kissing her head, "My grandchildren." She laughs, "Never thought I'd live to have Stark grandchildren."

"You'll have half-Norvoshi grandchildren," Elia replies, remembering Doran's wife, Mellario, and how they left her and her husband at Sunspear to enjoy the taste of power that would come when their mother died.

"Yes," her mother murmurs, taking a curl between two fingers, "Norvoshi, Starks. I fear what Oberyn will bring to the table."

"Whatever we think," Elia starts, "He'll do the complete opposite of it."

Her mother laughs and Elia joins in, relaxed at the idea of spending time with her mother alone. There is not much opportunity for it in Dorne, when Loreza Martell is away on business, running their entire country and keeping the peace in their lands, or when Oberyn is following her around, intent on doing something interestingthat she is too calm and frail to understand.

There, however, inside that guest chamber in Winterfell, they laugh throughout the night.

* * *

Her mother and his father talk for days, trapped inside the lord's solar. They leave only to sleep and to use the privy. Elia sees servants enter and leave the room bringing food, parchments and much else. Winterfell's maester, a short man called Walys, stays with them throughout and she imagines him whispering in the winter lord's ear.

Elia doesn't talk to Ned once in those days. Instead, she meets his eyes when they break their fast along with his family, or when they meet each other in a corridor, and she can't stop giggling and blushing like a maid, quickly averting her gaze. Somehow, after her mother propositioned a betrothal between the two, she has become more shy around him. Oberyn pokes her in the belly and tries to make fun of him, trying to stop this arrangement with cruel words and witty remarks, but Elia ignores him. He has already ruined her future with Baelor Hightower. She'll not let him do the same with Eddard Stark.

They stay in Winterfell for two more weeks and seamstresses start to work on new dresses for Elia three days into her visit. She likes them much more than Lady Manderly's gowns, they fit her better and though they are still the dull colors of Winterfell, not at all like the reds and oranges of Sunspear, she wears them all the same, wanting to please Ned and his people.

Lord Rickard announces their betrothal with a booming voice on a final feast at Winterfell, after inviting his vassals to see off the Princess of Dorne and her family. The northerners don't clap as loudly as she suspected they would, perhaps because they were hoping to marry their own daughters and sisters to Ned, but one or two make comments about her beauty and glamour before more ale flows their through their cups and people rejoice in eating. Elia dances with two northern lords; a Hornwood and a Cerwyn and she tries to remember their names but is unable to. A pretty Karstark lady with mouse-brown hair sits by her side, chatting away.

"You'll be very happy here, princess," she says and Elia is sure that her name is Alysanne, sister to Lord Rickard Karstark, "The quiet wolf will be a gracious husband. My brother always said any Lady will be lucky to have him."

Northerners could be cold, Elia thinks, but they love those Starks very much.

"Do you think people disapprove?" Elia asks, looking at the great lord sitting at their tables. Some steal a look or two at her, but most ignore her presence entirely, "I'm a southron dornish, after all."

Alysanne shakes her head and her pretty brown eyes glint in the candlelight.

"I don't think so, princess," she murmurs, serious, "People are surprised, I believe. Dorne is so far away and no one was expecting this. They will warm to you in time once they get to know you, you'll see."

Elia lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding and feels her entire body relax with Alysanne's careful words. She hopes the girl is right, she so wants to be popular in her future husband's land, as loved as she is in Dorne.

She looks at her promised. He is talking to his sister, their heads bent together, but, feeling her stare at him, Ned raises his eyes and meets her. Unlike other times, she doesn't look away. She holds his stare, raising a cup of ale to him before downing the drink in one gulp. Elia turns her head away and makes a face. _Gods, I will not get used to the ale._

When she looks back, face once again composed, he is still staring at her and his face is as neutral as ever. He's younger than her, just two years, but enough for his father to grow worried. They won't marry until Ned is eighteen, a man grown and mature, and that will take three years. A betrothal isn't set in stone and he might find a new, more beautiful northern wife that his people will not have to take time getting used to. Elia hopes that doesn't happen.

She looks at Brandon Stark, sitting by his mother's side. He's sixteen, only a year younger than her. If he weren't betrothed already, her mother would probably want to marry her to him, as he will be Lord of Winterfell someday. He's handsome and tall. Their children would be beautiful, little wolves with her hair and his eyes. She can already see them, playing the Water Gardens, climbing the walls of Winterfell.

And yet, she sees him down another cup of ale, his fifth by that point, and leave his mother to sweep a servant girl into his arms. She giggles and Elia knows this is not the first time they have dancedtogether.

She will not be humiliated like this, Elia knows. She'd never accept a husband who betrays her at every possible opportunity.

She is lucky, then, that Eddard is her choice of Stark.

* * *

Doran was nine when Elia was born, weak and a month too early. He had been a squire for Lord Gargalen and there was never any space for them to be close. Elia remembers being washed and dressed as a young child, maybe four years old, a nursemaid telling her that her brother was coming to visit them.

"Oberyn?" Elia had asked, remembering her beloved little brother.

"No, sweetling," the woman answered, smiling, "Doran."

Little Elia didn't know a Doran, but she said nothing. Instead, she ran to her mother, grabbed her hand and followed her into the entrance hall, where a tall boy with black hair and a light-brown skin, much close to her own shade was standing. Elia remembers thinking that he seemed familiar and she looked at her father, who was holding Oberyn in his arms, to find a similar serious expression on his face.

“Mother,” the boy whispered and hugged the Princess of Dorne.

“My son,” Elia’s mother said, letting go of her hand to touch the boy’s slim cheeks. He smiled, “Sunspear rejoices to have you back where you belong, by my side as my heir.”

Elia, upset at having lost her mother’s touch, walked to Doran. He was much taller than her at thirteen and yet she didn’t feel frightened. With her little hand, Elia grabbed Doran’s arm and pulled him.

“Come!” she said, “Play with me!”

Her mother laughed, surprised, “Elia, I’m sure your older brother does not wish to play with you!”

“Please, brother!” she asked, “Come play with me and my dolls!”

When their mother seemed ready to tell her to stop bothering her brother, the boy called Doran only smiled and said that, while he would be thrilled to play with her, he would be otherwise completely busy with their mother. Elia remembers smiling, completely satisfied with his answer.

Now the boy is a man, his black hair falls to his shoulders and he holds a woman’s hand. When they return to Dorne and tell him the news, Doran stares right into Elia and he seems to learn all of her secrets just by looking. He blinks his black eyes at her, 

“I thought you wanted to marry her to Jaime Lannister,” Doran says, at last, turning to their mother.

“There has been a change of plans, dear,” their mother answers, peeling a blood orange, “And your sister was most insistent.”

“Lord Eddard is good and honorable, Doran,” Elia says, smiling, “You’ll know as soon as you meet him that I have made the right choice.”

“But he is a second son,” Doran protests, half-heartedly.

“As am I, brother,” Oberyn says and though his tone indicates offense, the smile on his face tells otherwise, “Do you hate _all_ second sons or just Stark?”

Doran smiles before looking at their mother, “This is just very surprising. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“I wasn’t either, Dor,” her mother murmurs, “But Elia seems to like this northern boy very much.

Mellario, seated next to her husband, frowns slightly, whispering in his ear and he whispers something back in that weird language of the Norvoshi. Mellario has had difficulty in learning the Common Tongue of Westeros, though Elia doesn’t really mind it. She is trying and that is what matters.

“I thought Rhaegar Targaryen would be your second choice,” Doran continues, turning to their mother once more and Mellario seems more relaxed by his side, leaning her bald head on his shoulder, “You and Lady Joanna met as companions to Queen Rhaella, did you not?”

“I did,” Loreza answers, “The queen and I are close friends, but the Starks have many allies. We wouldn't be just marrying them, we'd be marrying the Baratheons, the Tullys, the Arryns. Who would the Lannisters bring, when they are always marrying within their midsts? Or the Targaryens?”

“But she would have been the queen,” Doran continues, “Her son would rule all the land between the Wall and the Arm.” He turns to Elia, “Don’t you want that?”

“I want to be happy,” Elia says, “I want to have an honorable husband, who loves me. I want sons running around a Keep, I want daughters to brush their hairs. I want to rule my husband’s castle and have our children growing tall around us. I want children and grandchildren who don’t marry each other. Can the Targaryens truly promise us all of that?”

Doran stays quiet. He knows they can’t. Targaryens have married brother to sister since their landing, to keep bloodlines pure, and there is no indication that they will stop following this tradition. Rhaegar Targaryen is only single because his mother hasn’t produced a sister for him to marry yet, but there is still time and she knows that King Aerys will want grandchildren with pure valyrian blood, even if the girl takes another thirty years to come.

“Lord Eddard is noble,” she murmurs and everyone looks at her, surprised at the words coming from between her lips, “His family ruled as Kings in the North for ten thousand years before the Targaryens came, they united the North and have loyal followers to this day. The Starks are well-loved in the North and there are many who still see them like royalty.”

“But they bent the knee,” Oberyn says and she turns to her younger brother, “You are a Martell. _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._ These are our words. We are equals to the Targaryens, monarchs in our own right. We joined their kingdom willingly, with our backs straight. The Starks, however, bent the knee, afraid of the Targaryen’s power.”

“You have not paid attention to your history lessons, brother,” Elia replies, “There is no northern sword in the Iron Throne. The Starks bent the knee because they didn’t wish to spill their people’s blood because they knew what is more important: survival, not this game of thrones that Westeros seems so obsessed about. _Winter is Coming,_ not a threat, but an eternal warning against the weather, of how a family must stay together to survive. When we were there in Winterfell, Lyanna Stark told me an old saying of her family. Do you wish to hear it, brother?”

Oberyn rolls his eyes, “I have a feeling you shall tell me anyway.”

Elia opens her mouth to speak, but her brother beats her to it:

“ _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives,”_ Doran says and she stares at him in shock, “You are not the only one who paid attention to your history lessons, dear sister.” He looks at their mother, “If she wants to marry this Stark boy and you accept, then I have no choice but to do it as well.”

Elia smiles at her, pleased to have his blessing, and he smiles back.


	2. lord stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia is wedded and bedded.

_Dear Ned,_

_I long for your letters. You must send me more. I know you are a man of few words, but there must be something in your mind that you wish to tell me. I know I have lots of things I want to share with you once we see each other again._

_Love,_

_Elia._

* * *

_Dear Elia,_

_I’m a man of few words, it’s true. I try not to say things I don’t mean to, or that are untrue. However, I value you, I treasure the life we will have together in the future. You have to know this. I'm not a poet like your brother, hopefully, my intentions serve just as well._

_In two years, I will ride to Dorne and our life together will begin. I'm extremely anxious about it._

_Sincerely,_

_Ned._

* * *

_Dearest Ned,_

_I miss you. You left only two nights ago and yet I already miss you. This is so funny, how we’re not even married and I’m here in Sunspear missing you like a wife. Please tell your father to send you here with another one of those “important messages that can’t be trusted to a raven” soon. No one makes me laugh like you do._

_That’s all I need you to know. I miss you._

_Love,_

_Elia._

* * *

_Dearest Elia,_

_Lyanna has now been betrothed to Robert Baratheon. It seems my father’s desire to have a Stark dynasty ruling the Seven Kingdoms will happen, after all. Although I don’t agree with Lord Rickard’s southron ambitions, I’m happy to have Robert as a brother, to have my sister married to him. I was the one who rode to Winterfell, bearing his request, and I wonder if this is the best for them. Lyanna is a wild little thing, she’ll tire Robert out as he attempts to keep up with her, and their children will be warriors, feared by the whole Stormlands. Girls and boys, I’m sure._

_Father has told me that he will be rebuilding Moat Cailin, a stronghold that has stopped a thousand southron invasions, for us to live in. I will be Lord of Moat Cailin and you will be its Lady. I know the Moat is not as marvelous as Sunspear or the Water Gardens, but I hope you will come to love it someday. I know I do. We will be granted a tract of land to collect taxes in my father’s name; we will have money of our own, enough to live comfortably, perhaps even to have a maester._

_Yours truly,_

_Ned._

* * *

_My love,_

_I care not about money or titles. All I want is to be your wife. I know I will love Moat Cailin, as well as I love you. Now that I have a name for our future home, I can already see us there, with our children surrounding us. We will be happy, I’m sure._

_Your Elia._

* * *

_Dear Ned,_

_Please, accept my condolences about your mother. I know how much you loved her. Please tell me if I can do anything, if there is anything you want me to do. If you want me to go to Winterfell and be there with you, I will._

_Love always,_

_Elia._

* * *

_Dearest Elia,_

_I'm sorry about your father. I know how much you loved him, how much you two were close. Please, let me know if there is anything I can do._

_Yours forever,_

_Ned._

* * *

_My beloved,_

_Seamstress all the way from Winterfell are flocking to Sunspear, begging to be a part of the construction of my dresses. I know there is still a year to our wedding, but Mother wants everything to be perfect and it isn’t every day that a Martell princess gets married, especially to a Stark lord. She is sparing no expenses, perhaps giving me the marriage that was meant to Doran had he not eloped in secret. I can’t say I mind._

_I’ll have two. One for our ceremony in Dorne, the other for the North. It’s still in its early stages and yet I can’t decide which one is my favorite. I’ll have to ask your opinion once we meet at our wedding._

_Lovingly,_

_Elia._

* * *

_Dear Elia,_

_Much has changed since my last letter to you. To be honest, everything has changed. Brandon suffered an accident while hunting, he fell from his horse and Maester Walys said there was no hope; we could only make him as comfortable as possible before the time comes. And oh, how the time came quickly._

_My brother has died._

_I feel numb. I can't believe it. My entire life, Brandon has been there. He taught me how to ride, how to hunt. We were a pair like Lyanna and Benjen are. I wake up every morning expecting him to be there in the table, cursing me out for taking too long and making him wait to break his fast._

_You will now be marrying the heir to Winterfell. It seems that my brother was the only thing keeping me from being worthy of you._

_Love,_

_Ned._

* * *

Elia taps her fingers against her thigh, counts to a hundred in her head, says a quick prayer to the Maiden, all in attempts to still her racing heart, to stop the anxious sweat dripping from her brow and she fails miserably.

 _Will he even recognize me?_ she thinks though she knows how foolish it sounds. Of course, he will recognize her. There is not much for change from the age of seven and ten to twenty, but still. She’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t worry about such futilities.

_Does he still love me?_

Elia is sitting next to her mother, with Oberyn by her side, and she wrings her hands together as the castellan announces the arrival of Lord Rickard Stark, his son Eddard and his daughter, the Lady Lyanna. For half a second, Elia wonders where is little Benjen, but then the lord and his family enter and she stops wondering about anything. _He’s here._

Lord Rickard hasn’t changed much, though his beard is now almost completely gray and he has started to go bald. He stands tall, with broad shoulders and a serious expression, though she can see from his stance and posture that he’s relaxed and the sword on his hip is only for show; he trusts them. He is not wearing one of those wool outfits that the Starks like so much, instead she sees that he is with a linen tunic, with a gray cloak and a leather belt. His cloak is attached to him with a wolf metal pin.

Lyanna is much different than when Elia last saw her. She is six and ten now, a woman grown, and her long hair falls to her hips, unrestrained by braids or stylish hairstyles. She is wearing a green silk dress, with a pretty silver necklace. Even sitting, Elia can see that the girl is taller than herself, though not as tall as her brother or father. With a heavy heart, she notices how much the girl looks like her deceased mother, taken by a winter chill.

Despite it all, Ned is the last Stark Elia sets her eyes upon. He is taller and seems more confident in his own standing, finally growing into his own body. His beard is now full and thick, covering his lower jaw and chin, reaching his upper lip. He is wearing a white and gray tunic, like his father, though he doesn’t wear a cloak.

“Princess,” Rickard says, walking to her mother and kissing her ruby ring, “A pleasure to see you in such happy conditions.”

“My lord,” her mother answers, sitting on her throne. Though she doesn’t seem bothered, Elia knows that her mother can’t leave the chair without help and that her graying hair is only the most innocent sign of her aging, “A more joyous occasion, Sunspear has yet to see.”

Lord Rickard doesn’t smile, but his eyes glint.

“You have yet to meet my son and heir, Doran,” her mother continues, pointing to Elia’s brother, standing on her other side, “His wife, Mellario of Norvos, and their child, Princess Arianne.”

Mellario curtsies slightly, holding little Arianne in her arms, and Elia’s niece gurgles. Only a year old, the future Princess of Dorne is already beautiful. Lord Rickard kisses the hand offered by the Lady Mellario, and she smiles, pleased. Elia’s goodsister is wearing a black wig that day and she matches seamlessly with the rest of House Martell.

“A pleasure,” he says, raising a hand to pull lightly on Arianne’s chubby cheeks. The little girl giggles and tries to grab the lord’s beard, “Curious, I see.”

“Very much so, my lord,” Mellario answers and Doran smiles proudly.

Elia looks at Ned and sees him looking back at her. She blushes but doesn’t avert her eyes. He will be her husband, she can’t be shy around him.

“Please, my lords, accept our bread and salt,” her mother says and three servants enter the room, carrying thick loaves of bread and bowls of salt, “The wedding will happen tomorrow, as we suspected you may be tired from such a long journey. Allow my son, Oberyn, to take you to your rooms.”

Ned stares at her brother in confusion, his dark gray eyes soft as fog, and she knows that he was expecting herto be the one to lead them to their chambers, not Oberyn. Elia wishes it had been her, for they could surely talk in private as they did in their first meeting, all those years ago, but mother was most insistent that she did not talk to Eddard Stark before their wedding. A tradition, she said, that it’s unlucky for a groom to talk to his bride the day before they are wed. Sometimes, Elia truly hates the traditions, but she knows her mother cares for them and so she stayed quiet about it.

Oberyn stands up, wringing his hands together, and leads the Northmen out the hall, his booming voice ringing as he exclaims different facts and stories for each passing iron in Sunspear. Elia watches them leave, unable to avert her eyes, and she sees when Ned turns, looking back to see her.

She waves at him and he mouths something at her, something that she doesn't understand, but, before she could ask him to repeat, Ned turns back to Oberyn and asks him about the built of the maester's halls, how there is nothing like it in Winterfell.

Later, when Elia is walking back to her rooms, pink skirts sliding across the floor, she feels footsteps behind her, quickly getting closer to her and, when she turns, she sees Eddard Stark, standing tall. He stops when she stops and she knows that he is not in that corridor by accident.

He blinks and she blinks. Elia realizes that he didn't have a plan when he came there, near her chambers, nor knew exactly what he wanted to say. She should speak first, to make him relax.

"I missed you," Elia says and his shoulders loosen and he takes a step forward.

Ned smiles, "I've missed you too." He takes her hand, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles.

"Come," Elia says, tugging on his hand and Ned follows her like a doll, walking to her empty room.

"Your mother would have my head if she saw me in your rooms before we were wed," Ned says, looking around, but there is a wistful smile on his face.

Her rooms must be very different than his own from Winterfell. There is a large window, with enough thickness for her to sit and watch the gardens or feel the sun in her face at dawn. Her large bed, with a thousand pillows and silk red sheets, embroidered with the sun and spear of House Martell. An oak desk for her to write letters or read her beloved books and another desk, though the second had a large looking-glass and bottles of dornish perfumes.

"My mother isn't here, love," Elia replies, pulling him to her bed, "And we will not be sinning. I only wish to talk to my betrothed."

Ned sits next to her, but he still looks at the door, frightened, as if her mother could walk in the next second, screaming at him and branding him a pervert.

"Very well," he says, looking at her at last, "Let's talk."

Elia knows she must look awestruck and completely in love with him, but that is the way she feels. _There's nothing wrong with loving one's future husband_ , and oh, she loves him truly. Three years have passed since they first met, a hundred letters exchanged between the Eyrie, Winterfell and Sunspear, two whole visits by him to her home when a false pretense brought him back into her arms and she fell in love all over again.

"You look well," she says, "How do you find Dorne?"

"It's as I imagined and yet not at all," Ned answers, "Your people are beautiful, Elia, as is the land."

Elia smiles and touches her cheek with her free hand. Before Brandon, quite soon after their parents began negotiations for their wedding, her mother had wanted them to live with her in Dorne, she'd have given Ned lordship over some castle near the Water Gardens if only to keep her close.

Now, though, with Ned being the heir to Winterfell, there is no way that her mother could convince Lord Rickard to let them live away from his kingdom.

"I imagined the weather is not to your taste," she says and he laughs.

"I've seen worse," Ned answers.

She smiles and he smiles back. Suddenly hungry, Elia wants to do more than hold hands; she wants to kiss him, to lay over him or have him on top of her, and to deepen their kisses until she forgets everything except his name. She wants and she wants, but there is nothing she can do with Ned so nervous about being discovered, he'd never accept a session of loving kisses, no matter what she'd say.

 _I'll have to wait then,_ she thinks, imagining the next day when they'd be married in front of the gods and the lords of Westeros.

"So many people have come," Elia whispers, "Lord Arryn arrived yesterday, with his nephew. The Baratheon brothers have been here for a whole fortnight, as has Ser Kevan Lannister and the Lady Dorna. Lord Tully sent his brother, the Blackfish."

Ned nods, paying attention to every word she has said, "And the Tyrells?"

Elia feels her shoulders fall and she knows that her expression must not be any better, but she gulps and tries to put on a brave face for him.

"They sent no one," Elia answers, "But we were already expecting that. They hate us."

"Oh, then they must not have met you," Ned says, caressing her cheeks, "No one could ever hate you, Elia."

Elia smiles and she has never wanted to kiss him more than at that moment. Gods, it would be so easy to just lean forward and press her lips against his and she is almost doing it, already closing her eyes, when he speaks again.

"I saw a Targaryen entourage outside when we arrived," he murmurs, "The crown prince and the queen, with three knights of the Kingsguard."

Elia frowns, "The queen?"

"Yes," he answers, pushing a rebel lock of black hair behind her ear, "I suppose even the Mad King couldn't keep his wife locked away for the wedding of her dear friend's daughter."

"Poor thing," Elia says, unable to not feel pity for Rhaella Targaryen, "My mother said he's cruel to her."

"Then this trip must be a relief for her, though she had to leave her youngest son behind in King's Landing."

Elia nods. She knows who he is talking about. Little prince Viserys, only a year old and already the realm's delight. The first child born in almost seventeen years to his royal parents. A tournament had been hosted in Lannisport by the Hand to celebrate his birth. Elia's family didn't go.

"The queen loves her children very much," Elia states because she doesn't know what else to say. They weren't expecting the Targaryens. The invitation had only been sent for politeness.

"She does," Ned answers.

Elia smiles. He must feel her nervousness, because he caresses her knuckles, kissing the back of her hand with a tenderness that made her almost weep.

"Where is Benjen?" she asks, curious, "I thought he'd be here for our wedding."

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Ned replies, "Benjen was chosen."

"Oh," Elia says, "I didn't know that. Why?"

Ned shrugs, "I fear the answer has not been told to me, Elia. My ancestors have lived in Winterfell for ten thousand years and we live the way they do. Our way is the old way."

Elia knows it. The Starks follow the Old Gods and there is nowhere in Westeros where First Men's blood runs more freely than in the North, where the Andals failed to conquer or mingle with. She'd be expected to wed in front of a weirwood once they arrived in Winterfell and had been told her children would be raised following northern traditions, though she's allowed to follow the Seven privately if she wants to.

Though devoted to the Seven, Elia knows that if her children are meant to be taken as real Starks, then she must swallow her pride and have them be brought up by their father in the ways of the North. In truth, she cares not about which gods her children are taught to follow, as long as they are happy in their devotion.

"I understand," she says.

He smiles, but his eyes take on a somber note "Are you happy?", he asks, looking straight at her, seeking all the answers in her face, "Do you truly want this?"

 _So insecure,_ she thinks, almost angry, but she could never be angry at him.

"Yes," Elia answers, "I have never wanted anything more in my life than I want to be your wife."

Ned smiles and cups her cheeks softly, before pulling her in for a sweet kiss. Elia sighs against his lips, opening her own ever so slightly to let in his tongue. His mouth is gentle and slow, ready to part and yet wanting to continue. Elia smiles.

They lay in her bed, her head to his chest, and talk about everything and nothing at once. Ned played with her hair, taking a lock between his two fingers and knotting, unknotting, doing anything that might please him enough.

Elia bites her lip. They are quiet now, so relaxed that they are almost sleeping, but there is still something she wants to say, something in her heart that she needs to let out. She takes a deep breath and gathers the courage needed.

"I'm sorry about your brother," she says, caressing his chest and Ned's face falls, "Brandon was a good man. He didn't deserve it."

"No, he didn't," Ned answers, giving her shoulders a tight squeeze and, though it hurt, she doesn't complain, "We never saw it coming. It was… a terrible affair."

"Do you wish to talk about it?" Elia asks, careful.

Ned nods, "I think I need to get these feelings out of my chest."

Elia takes his free hand and squeezes it.

"Then talk, I'm here for you," she says, "I will not say anything unless you want me to. I will only listen."

Ned sighs and closes his eyes, a haunted expression covering his long face.

"I was with him," he starts, eyes still closed, "When he fell. It was just the two of us, Brandon's wedding date had been announced and he wished to present a pelt to Lady Tully. _After I'm married, it will be your turn, Ned_ , he said, _And then Lya._ _The Starks will be aligned with three Great Houses because of us._ I said something stupid about how only one house was because of us, the other two having been brought into our midsts through our father's work. He looked at me and smiled," Ned laughs, dryly, "I was always so jealous of that smile. So broad, with white shiny teeth. Brandon was the pride of Winterfell, I was nothing but the spare. Replaceable, as soon as Benjen was born."

Elia wants to interrupt him, to say that he is not replaceable to her, but that is not what he needs now. He needs her to listen to him, and so she does.

"I could never be as charming as him, or as tall or as handsome. Riding, hunting _._ The girls loved him, they never looked at me twice when he was around, and even then... Brandon would always best me, no matter what I did. I suppose that is the bane of second sons." He opens his eyes and they are red-rimmed, wet even, with stubborn tears sliding down his cheeks. Elia moves closer to him if only to make him lean on her, and squeezes his hand.

"Tell me," she whispers.

"Something must have spooked his horse," he murmurs, "I don't know. The beast ran as fast as it could, too fast for him to keep up, and he fell, almost two feet to the ground, hitting his head, but he might have survived that if only his feet didn't get stuck in his saddle." Elia's jaw drops and her heart stops inside her chest. _Oh no._ When the letter came telling her of Brandon's death and Ned's new role as heir to Winterfell, she was spared of the gruesome details, "He was dragged for hours until I was able to reach the horse and calm it down, but, by then, it was already too late."

He sighs and rubs a hand against his mouth to stop crying, or so Elia suspects. She shushes him, drawing circles and hearts on his chest.

"My father screamed when I came back with him atop my horse. I've never seen him in so much pain, or so devastated," he murmurs, looking at the canopy of her bed, "Everyone said Brandon took after our mother, with a little more wolf blood than most, and that I was like my father. Quiet, dignified. But Brandon was the heir, the firstborn. My father loved him. _I_ loved him and now he's dead."

Elia raises her head, looking at Ned laying over her pillows as if he always belonged in her bed, and she kisses his face, kisses the tears away. After they've laid together, her hair came off its braid and now, it falls on the bed, long and shiny, like a black sheet.

"Just because your brother has died, does not mean you have stopped loving him," Elia says, "Honor him, my love. Honor him through your actions, through your words. Be the heir to Winterfell that you and I know you can be. Don't let your brother's death be in vain. Honor him."

"I don't know the first thing about being a lord," he exclaims, shaking his head, "Brandon was always meant to inherit our family's titles."

"Yes, he was, but I know that _you_ were the only paying attention to your father's lessons," she says and he closes his mouth, shocked at her words, "Brandon and Lyanna were wild, off doing their own things, and Benjen was just a babe, while you remained in Winterfell by your father's side, the dutiful son. When you were taken to the Eyrie, you only met another great Lord who could teach you the ways of ruling and I know that's exactly what he did."

"I have always done my duty," he whispers and she can barely hear him.

"Yes, my love," she answers, "I know."

He blinks and then smiles, cleaning his cheeks of any tears that have remained.

* * *

Doran walks her to her husband, arm in arm with his little sister, and Elia tries to draw strength from his presence, grabbing his forearm tightly. Everyone is watching her, but she only has eyes for Ned. He is standing next to Septon Willem, wearing his finest gray silks and holding a cloak of white in his hands. He looks handsome. The statues of the Mother and Father trap him beneath their godly glares and Ned exchanges nervous glances with his sister. She knows these are not his gods or even his land, but their marriage will still be valid in the eyes of the Northmen, no matter where it’s held. And they will hold a true northern wedding when they arrive in Winterfell, as his father demanded.

There is nothing to be afraid of. She knows him, she loves him, but there are many stories in Dorne about men who were sweet, but completely changed once the marriage vows were said.

Legally, she will be his property. He could do anything he wanted with her and no one would even blink an eye.

Elia wishes she had accepted the fruits and cheeses that her mother had sent to her bedroom for her to break her fast, but she found herself unable to take even a small bite, so anxious that she was. Now, however, she feels as if she might swoon right there, in front of all the high lords of Westeros.

“Don’t let me fall,” she whispers, to her brother alone, and he taps her hand.

“Never.”

Her mother is sitting on a high dais, next to Lord Rickard, and she is watching it all with a careful eye, her princess’ expression on, but when Elia looks at her, Loreza Martell smiles and winks. _I am a Martell,_ she says to herself, _The sun of Dorne. I’m not afraid._

Doran hands her to Ned, their hands touching as he leads her gently to the aisle, a step above the rest of the Sept so everyone could see the happy couple.

“You look beautiful,” Ned whispers to her and Elia feels her cheeks burning.

She’s wearing her dornish wedding gown, red and gold in color to symbolize her rhoynish descent. The skirts are full and pool at her feet, several inches of fabric wasted to create a long train that drags behind her whenever she walks. Threads of gold had been painstakingly embroidered on the hems and sleeves of her clothing, creating images of speared suns and wolves, intermingled together to symbolize the newfound friendship between the two great houses. Elia’s necklace, gold with rubies, hung heavy on her neck, weighing her down, but she kept her head up, holding the careful crimson veil pinned in her black hair over her eyes. An orphan of the Greenblood had come earlier that day to pierce her nose, hanging the Nath in her left nostril and attaching it to her earring, creating a golden chain that crossed her cheek.

Doran removes her maiden’s cloak, orange and with a gleaming ruby sun embroidered on it. Elia and her mother had taken hours to finish it, only for it to become useless so quickly.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” says Septon Willem and Ned nods, placing his white cloak over her shoulders and Elia remembers their first night together when he put his cloak over her in the godswood. _Have we been married since then?_ He smiles at her, rubbing her arms affectionately, and she knows that there must be a black direwolf sewn into her new cloak, symbolizing her changing alliance, “My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!”

No one speaks. A pin could fall in the sept and Elia thinks she’d be able to hear it perfectly if only her heart wasn’t beating it so loudly, roaring in her ears.

Ned and her stand side by side, holding hands and she knows its too late to back out, though she wouldn’t, even if she wanted to. Septon Willem takes a white ribbon, tying it around Elia and Ned’s wrist, knotting it tightly.

“Let it be known,” he says, his booming voice ringing in the tightly sealed sept, “That Elia of House Martell and Eddard of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” There is a concentrated expression on the septon’s face and Elia tries to listen to his voice, carefully ignoring her beating heart and the presence of the man she loved next to him. She thinks she’d lose her footing if she _even_ looked at him. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

He unties the ribbon, but Elia’s hand remains over Ned’s. They barely move.

“Look upon each other and say the words,” he murmurs.

Elia turns to Ned, their hands lowered together, and he smiles at her. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.” The voice leaves her lips without a problem, as does his, simultaneously speaking with her, “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” he says and she wonders how much he practiced these words at home, to speak so confidently the vows of a religion that is not his own, “With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

He kisses her, gently and slowly. His lips are as familiar as her own and Elia smiles against his mouth.

They separate and turn to the audience, who have erupted into polite applause.

And, just like that, Elia is married.

* * *

Loreza Martell had a feast prepared for her daughter and new goodson, forcing the cooks of Sunspear to work for almost a full sennight without sleep to attend to her wishes. No one would dare to go against the Princess of Dorne.

Elia sits in a place of honor, next to her husband, and she sees as everyone finds their places. Tullys, Arryins, Lannisters, Baratheons. They all had been seated carefully by her, taking care not to offend anyone or neglect her own selfish desires. House Martell is by her side, as they should considering they are the bride’s family, while Ned’s father and sister are by his side. She sees some northern lords in attendance, sigils she can’t recognize and those that she can, like the Umber’s hairy giant, a white Karstark sun and Manderly’s green merman. All drinking, dancing, and laughing. Celebrating the heir’s wedding. 

Elia’s eyes travel through the room, trying to determine who will be most likely to greet them first when her eyes catch on a spot of light near the entrance hall. Two people are entering, hand in hand, a man and a woman, though the latter is older than the former. Their hair is silver, almost white. Elia knows who they are even without looking at their sigil. Targaryens. The queen and the crown prince, Rhaella and Rhaegar. People bow and curtsy to them, but, somehow, they try not to make themselves noticeable, almost as if they don’t want to be seen.

 _They just don’t want to upstage the bride and groom,_ Elia tells herself, though her heart is racing, more so than it was at the Sept. Her mother’s words ring in her head. _You can’t trust a Targaryen._ They sit at their place and, as the songs start, Rhaella Targaryen almost looks happy to be there.

Despite it all, Elia finds herself fixated by the Prince of Dragonstone. Rhaegar is beautiful and if the rumors are true, charming. Tall, long-haired, with those deep violet eyes of the valyrian. Any girl would be lucky to have him on her bed, but he, officially, he is as chaste as her. Though being of age, Rhaegar has yet to marry and sire legitimate children. _You could have married him,_ a voice says in her head, one that looks most like her mother’s, _You could have married him and be his queen. You are the only one worthy of him. Princes marry princesses, after all._

 _I don’t want him,_ Elia thinks, stubborn, _I want Ned._

Shaking, Elia turns to her husband and finds him already looking at her, taking her in with a wistful expression. _Is he admiring my jewels,_ Elia asks to herself, _or me?_

“It’s too late to change your mind now, princess,” he whispers, taking a lock of her dark hair between his fingers.

“I could say the same thing to you, my lord,” Elia replies, cheeky, and he smiles, almost laughing.

“What were you looking at?” he asks, turning to the people in attendance, “You seemed very focused.”

“Nothing,” Elia says. Although she doesn’t wish to begin their married life with a lie, she also doesn’t want to make him jealous of the prince and well, it was only a curious look, was it not? “I just want to make sure that everyone is comfortable.”

Ned nods and then a line of servants enters the room, carrying the first course of the day. Roasted ducks, Elia sees, with fried tomatoes and mustard seeds, along with a row of figs, olives, and peppers stuffed with cheese. Her mouth waters.

Her husband eats only the ducks and experiments a tomato carefully, making a disgusted face. Elia tries not to laugh, but she can't and small giggles leave her lips.

"Yes, dear," Ned says and his tone is playful, "Laugh at me all you want. This is the way to start a marriage."

Elia stops laughing, but a smile remains on her face so wide and tight that her cheeks start hurting from it, but she can't stop smiling. She is just too happy.

"You're eating it wrong," she says, "Here." Elia takes a sliced tomato with a fork and cuts out the seeds, leaving only the red flesh of it, "Try it." She offers the piece, holding it between her fingers. Ned, looking right into her eye, closes his mouth around the tomato, his teeth scraping against her skin and his eyes darken, "What do you find of it?" she whispers.

"Delicious," Ned replies.

Elia blushes and he takes a sip of wine from their shared goblet, smiling privately.

An older man walks to their table, his balding head held high above the people around him, and she knows who he is before seeing the falcon sigil on his cloak, because Ned told her so much of the same who raised him that she thinks she could recognize Lord Jon Arryn even with a blindfold over her eyes, only because his presence is so strong in the room. There is a boy by his side, no older than seventeen, and he too wears the blue and white of House Arryn; the heir to the Vale, Elbert.

Ned smiles when he sees his foster father approaching and Jon Arryn is smiling as well, next to his nephew. He bows when they arrive at the table, careful not to bend too low.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” Elbert says, smiling. He is blonde and fair, with a beautiful smile. Elia heard that he had been betrothed to a Royce girl and would be marrying her when they returned to the Vale. Elia prays that she gives him a son. House Arryn’s numbers are dwindling and only two male heirs remain.

“A beautiful ceremony to a beautiful couple,” Lord Arryn continues and Elia smiles, softly. He’s so kind, “Take good care of your wife, Ned. Or the might of Dorne will fall before you.”

It’s only a jest, but Ned’s blanches and he steals a nervous glance to Elia’s brother, sitting by the corner of the room, playing with a knife as his latest paramour, a Summer Islander _,_ whispers in his ear. His daughters, the three little Sand Snakes, run around the hall, stealing cakes from the servants and kisses from their grandmother. The high lords largely ignore the Prince’s bastards. Oberyn, certainly noticing his goodbrother’s gaze, raises his dark eyes and stares at Eddard, sticking the sharp point of his weapon against his thumb.

“Ned is a good man,” Elia murmurs, placing her hand over Ned’s chest, “He was raised well.”

“Yes, but an upbringing does not change one’s nature,” Lord Arryn says, “He’s a good man.” He winks at Ned, proudly.

Ned looks down, unable to appreciate the compliment wholly, and Elia says her thanks to Lord Arryn and his nephew. They leave, returning to their table, and a new course begins. The princess doesn’t bother looking at them. She already ate.

Elia turns to Ned, “Dance with me.”

“I don’t know this dance, Elia,” Ned replies, already shaking his head.

“I wasn’t asking,” she says, extending her hand. Sighing, Ned accepts it.

The night continues and she dances thrice with her new husband, once with his Lord father, twice with her brother Oberyn and once with Doran, before Mellario manages to steal him away for the rest of the night. Elia grabs her cup of wine, leaning on the high table as she tries to catch her breath, exhausted after so many dancing rounds. She looks around the room, trying to see if everyone is happy, or having fun.

Ned is talking to Lord Arryn by his table and she sees Robert Baratheon pull a reluctant Lyanna to the floor, oblivious to her displeasure. Lord Rickard is drinking from his cup and her mother has retired for the night, though with the permission to continue their festivities. Kevan Lannister is talking to his wife and, although they don’t dance or drink, she can see that they are happy together and that there is a pleasing expression on Lady Dorna’s face. Stannis Baratheon sits in the Baratheon, sternly and not talking to anyone, or touching his goblet of wine… and Rhaegar Targaryen is talking to Ser Brynden, a hand over the Blackfish’s shoulders as if they are old friends, not complete strangers. Elia downs her wine and walks to them, placing a kind smile on her face. They don’t see her approaching.

“My lord, your grace,” she says, bowing her head slightly for the prince, “How pleased I am to see you both here.”

“Princess, may I give you congratulations on your marriage on behalf of House Tully,” says Ser Brynden, kissing her hand, “The Seven Kingdoms have yet to meet a more beautiful bride.”

He must happy, Elia notices, if he is being courteous. Everyone knows how the Blackfish of Riverrun is as blunt as peasant’s sword. What Rhaegar said must not have been insulting, though Elia doubts it would have been. The crown prince is charming and polite.

She turns to Rhaegar, leaning her head slightly, “What are we talking about? Hopefully, the songs, although they have yet to play my favorite.”

“What is your favorite song, princess?” the prince asks, “Or is it Lady Stark now?”

“The Dance of the Dragons, your grace,” she answers, “I believe, Lady Stark is more appropriate, though I doubt any dornishmen could ever call me anything other than a princess.”

“A sad song?” he asks, arching a silver eyebrow.

“Always brings me to tears,” she answers, “But you’re not answering my question, your grace.”

Rhaegar looks at Brynden and the Blackfish shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptible, “Ser Brynden and I were only discussing the future of our Houses.”

“Yes,” Ser Brynden says, “And, speaking of that, I must take my leave, princess. It seems I must take a message to my brother.”

Ser Brynden walks aways, his auburn hair contrasting against the dark browns and blacks of the Great Hall, leaving Elia alone with the crown prince. She turns to him.

“Ser Brynden has two nieces,” Elia murmurs, “Catelyn and Lysa. They are still unmarried. As are you.”

“Exactly,” Rhaegar answers, “Though the Lady Catelyn could be considered a widow, in my opinion. Her wedding date was set and then her betrothed had an accident, not two days later. Now your husband is the new heir. A sad coincidence with happy results.”

Elia narrows her eyes.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” she asks, “You truly think I could have killed Brandon Stark? It would be kinslaying. I’d be cursed by all gods.”

“Not you, princess,” Rhaegar says, “But your brother is a vicious man. He killed Lord Yronwood. I’m sure that he would’ve wanted you to be the Lady of Winterfell.”

Elia knows that to not be possible. Oberyn was in Dorne for all five months leading up to her receiving the news of Brandon’s death, within her very sight. To accuse him of such a thing is a terrible idea. Rhaegar is smarter than this. What is he doing?

“My husband grieves and you offend me on my wedding day?” she questions, a little too loud for her taste and several lords nearby turn to them, pretending not to notice their argument.

“I only say what my people think, princess,” he murmurs, grabbing her hand and Elia’s eyes widen, feeling the rough texture of a piece of parchment against her palm, “The entire realm was shocked when your betrothal was announced, even my father. A princess of Dorne and a second son? I knew then that it was only a matter of time before Brandon was taken care of.”

“Is there something wrong here, your grace?” a rough voice speaks behind her and Elia knows that Ned has come, but she is too shocked to even speak, “Elia?”

Rhaella glides next to her son, grabbing his forearm with an intense grip. She is wearing her black silks and there is a silver circlet over her hair, adorned with rubies, “We should go.”

“Remember what I tell you, Elia of Dorne,” Rhaegar says before following his mother.

The Targaryens leave in silence, disappearing inside the shadows, and a hundred men of the Crownlands are behind them, taking their pretty sigils and open mouths along with them. Elia feels Ned’s rough calloused hands against her shoulders as he turns her gently to face him.

“What did he say to you?” her husband asks, “What does he want you to remember?”

“Nothing,” Elia explains, clenching her hand around the piece of parchment, “It was only a story, a sad one, and my blood may have gotten too hot in anger over the characters’ behavior.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Oberyn says, appearing next to her and Elia tries not to show her shock. She hadn’t seen him coming.

“Then you must clean your ears, brother,” Elia replies and turns to her husband, “I think it’s time for us to retire.”

“Yes,” Ned says, staring at her quizzically, “It’s time.”

* * *

Ned bars her room’s doors, turning to her with an angry expression. But it’s not at her that he is angry, Elia knows, it’s Rhaegar. He may have listened to the prince accuse her of his brother’s murder, as so many men did, and as he sits by her side in bed, ready to question her until she tires of his probing and tells him the truth, Elia unfolds her two hands, revealing the parchment wrinkled in her hand.

Her maids have come and went, removing her dress from her and leaving Elia only in her shift.

“What’s that?” he asks and Elia sighs.

“A message from the prince,” she answers, “He handed it to me when we were talking. I suppose that is why he started the argument. He knew I’d come to talk to him and had this ready, to give it to me and leave. This is why he even came to our wedding, not to celebrate our love.” She laughs, though it’s fake and high.

“What does it say?” he asks and she shrugs, before smoothing out the message. They both read it, heads side by side.

_My father is mad and my house is dying. Tell the world that the dragon prince will marry the trout lady and that we will need the wolf and the sun with us. Meet us in the bat’s tourney to bring peace into this bleeding realm._

“Bat’s tourney?” she asks, confused.

“Lord Whent,” Ned explains, “ His sigil is nine bats on a yellow field. He holds Harrenhal. But he has never hosted a tourney, as far as I know.”

“He will,” Elia notes, looking at her husband, “And Rhaegar wants us there. He is planning to marry a Tully girl. I saw him talking with the Blackfish.”

Ned nods, “He means to rebel against his father, to depose him.” He looks up, licking his lips, “The king is mad, everyone knows. A tyrant, unworthy of his title. If he married a Tully, he’d gain a fast friend and with us… That’s three great houses. I’m friends with Robert and he is Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, along with Jon Arryn. That makes it five.”

Elia stands up, unable to stay seated while he talks of _treason,_ “I don’t want to talk about this.” She turns to him. Ned has stood up as well.

“Elia, this is important!” he says, “Don’t you want a king who is just and intelligent and good _?_ A king who doesn’t marry his own sister!”

She sighs, loosening her entire body. Elia softens her voice and unlaces the front of her shift, just enough for her expose her chest, the fabric pooling at her waist, “What I want is to not spend my wedding night speaking about the Targaryens.”

Elia knows she is not the most beautiful woman in the world, or even in Dorne, but every woman has their attributes. Her breasts may be small, and her waist too thin for some tastes, but she knows, just by the entranced look in Ned’s eyes, that she is somewhat alluring. She walks to him and takes his left hand between her fingers; his hand is so much bigger than her own and, as she leads it to her right teat, he is able to hold it almost fully, but that’s not what he wants to do, apparently. Gently, Ned traces his thumb over her nipple and, although the room is warm, it perks up in a peak, seeking his touch.

“Do you still want to talk about the Targaryens, my lord?” she asks, in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.

Ned laughs, eyes on her breasts, “Of course not.”

He is still dressed, but, as he takes a step forward and places his mouth against hers, Elia doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about Rhaegar Targaryen, about Brandon Stark, about Oberyn, about her mother or about her fragile health. All she cares about is her husband, there, in front of her, kissing her lips with a hunger that she has never seen in him. His hand remains on her nipple, caressing and cupping it, but Elia quickly gets impatient of it. She wants _more._

She separates their lips and Ned seems close to complaining, whining over the loss of her kiss, but when, she takes off her shift completely, throwing it on the floor behind her and standing naked in front of him, save for her smallclothes, he shuts up. His gray eyes light up and he sits down on the bed, staring at her as if she's the Maiden herself come to life.

Elia doesn't know what to do, she doesn't even know what to say and yet, Ned is there, with her. He'll not judge her.

Slowly, he presses his wet lips above her navel, just below her breasts and Elia sighs, placing a hand on his hair. He cut his hair, she notices, just a little, so it reaches his ears instead of his shoulders. His hands curl around her smallclothes and he pulls it down slowly, lips still to her skin, almost as if he's afraid that any brusque movements could send her running to Oberyn. Elia holds her breath and steps out of the garment, hands still lost in Ned's hair.

"Have you've done this before?" she asks, still standing. Elia doesn't know why she bothers. Of course, he did. He was best friends with Robert Baratheon and the tales of his whoring had reached even her. There is no way Lord Baratheon hadn't dragged his friend to a brothel near the Eyrie. 

And yet, his answer is a shock.

"No," Ned says, looking up at her, "Robert tried to, the gods know how much he tried, especially before we came here. When I returned to the Eyrie after our betrothal was announced, he tried to drag me to a brothel, so I could _learn_ ." He sighs, placing his cheek against her belly, "I couldn't, though. I kept thinking, _how will I tell Elia of this? How can she forgive me for this slight?_ And if I had a child with one of those girls, well that would have been enough reason for your brother to pierce me with that poisoned spear of his."

But Elia had stopped hearing after the no. He's a maid, just like her.

"It's fine," she says, taking his head between her hands and bending it up, making him look at her, "We'll learn together." She kisses him, long and sweet, and sits over his thighs, knees pressed against the bed. Elia wraps her arms around his neck and he holds her back, digging his fingers in the supple flesh of her bottom.

He traces the outline of her mouth with his tongue, gentle, and Elia sighs, moving her hips over him and she must be doing something right, because Ned holds her tighter, groaning against her ear. She does it again and again, each time eliciting a reaction from him, like Ned grabbing her rump tighter or the hardness growing in his breeches, rigid against her touch.

“Wait,” Ned says, separating their lips and Elia pouts, holding onto him. With a swift movement, he removes the pin from his tunic, taking the doublet and his undershirt off. Elia had heard tales of strong northerners, riding wolves and mammoths into battle, swooping away unsuspecting maids to become their wives, but she had mostly thought them to be about the wildlings. However, underneath all those layers, she sees that Ned could very well be one of those Northmen, with his strong arms and taut muscles. His chest is lined with rough brown hair, more so at the center, with a downwards arrow starting at his navel and leading down to his… _member._ He has a hard and lean chest, with a thin and long white scar just beneath his left nipple. Elia traces it with her finger and finds the skin rough, almost like leather.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Robert,” he replies, hands on her thighs, “When we were thirteen, Jon’s master-at-arms finally gave us a real sword and he went too rough on me. Took me a week to recover. ”

Elia smiles, “I shall have his head for this.”

Ned laughs, “I’d love to be the one to give it to you,” he says and she kisses him again, sliding her hands back to his shoulders and pressing enough on him that he falls back, head hitting her soft pillows, thrown wildly around the bed by the maids wishing to give them a comfortable consummation spot.

Swift as a cat, he turns both of their bodies, laying over her body, trapping her beneath him, their bodies aligned with the bed properly now. Elia giggles as his hand roam her skin, and her giggles soon turn to breathless sighs. He takes each breast in his hand, peppering kisses on her neck as his lips move lower and lower. Suddenly, a wet heat closes around her nipple, her husband sucking the breast into his mouth and his hand wanders to her thighs, dipping between her legs.

“Ned,” she whispers when his thumb finds her clit and she moans at how slippery she feels, how gently he moves as if she’s a doll that might break under his touch, “Ned, _please.”_

She doesn’t know what she is begging for, but he must. Ned always knows everything. Slowly, he parts her dark curls and slides a finger inside her, separating his mouth from her teat to gauge her reactions as he moves his digit. Elia frowns and he breaths against her cheek, “Too much?”

“Faster,” she whispers and he nods, obeying, “More.”

Ned adds a second finger and Elia hisses with the pain, but she swallows it down when he kisses her breast, licking her perked nipple. His thumb coaxes her clit and warmth pools between her legs, following his touch. Ned moves his attentions to her other breast, but his fingers remain in place. 

Suddenly, it all becomes too much and Elia peaks with a long moan, unable to keep it in herself any longer. Ned brings his mouth back to hers and stops his hand, allowing her those precious and sensitive seconds to recover, lips against his.

Breathless, Elia moves her head away from his, their cheeks touching still, and skims her hands down from his shoulder, gliding over his hard chest and reaching his breeches. The laces are undone, somehow she failed to notice that, and she slips her hands inside, grabbing his hard manhood with his hands.

She should probably call it the proper name, or that base word that men love so much, but Elia can’t imagine herself even thinking it without blushing furiously. 

She flicks her thumb over the slit, trying to please him as well as she can without seeing, and tries to slide her hands down the shaft, but it’s dry and the friction nor the angle are right. Ned groans against her cheeks as she holds his member and Elia wonders for half a second if she is hurting him before he whispers in her ear.

“Gods, Elia.” He sounds pained and almost angry, “Stop _torturing_ me.”

She laughs at that and helps him removes his breeches, followed closely by his smallclothes. Elia wraps her arms around his neck as he lays over her more properly, with no room for error. He reaches down, aligning himself with her entrance.

"Ready?" he asks and Elia nods, leaning their foreheads together.

Ned penetrates her slowly, but, despite his carefulness, a dull pain creeps up on Elia, almost burning. "Stop." Her voice left her in a breath, disappearing in the air around them, but her husband obeys, stopping his movements completely, and Elia breathes deeply, trying to get used to the feeling of him inside her.

"Go on," she whispers and he holds her hips with his hand, thrusting into her.

Comfort never comes, or that aching pleasure from earlier, but Elia learns to not mind. She closes her legs around his waist and looks at him in the eye, not wanting to miss a thing. Ned closes his eyes, furrowing his brow as soft moans escape his lips. _The quiet wolf_ , isn't that what people called him?

His hip bone rubs against her and there is the faintest hint of bliss, barely there, but just enough to make the entire situation more bearable. Elia holds her husband close as the waves of pleasure hit him.

"Elia," Ned whispers, nosing her hair, ' _Oh…"_

His peak is marked with a grunt and he presses his lips to her sweaty skin, stilling his movements completely as he spills inside of her. Elia feels a new wave of warmth fulfilling her and he sighs against her skin.

As he attempts to regain his breathing, Elia brushes her fingers down his back, attempting to comfort him. He holds his weight above her with his elbows, face touched against her and she kisses every inch of his skin that she can find, slobbering all over him. He laughs and removes himself off of her, flopping on the open space next to her.

He cups her cheek and Elia never wanted something more than she wanted to kiss him right then and there.

“Was it good?” she asks, joining her hands together and placing it beneath her head as she turned to look at him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, turning to have her in his gaze as well, “Next time, it will be better.”

Elia laughs, averting her eyes, “Already thinking about our next coupling, my lord?”

Ned blushes profusely, his cheeks taking a deep shade of red. Elia laughs again and scoots closer, almost touching his body with hers.

She takes his hand and splays it against her belly, his fingers taking most of her navel.

"Do you think we've made a child tonight?" she asks, not looking at him.

"I don't know," Ned says, "I both hope and hope not."

Elia raises her eyebrows, "Why? Don't you want heirs?"

"I do," he says, quickly and almost apologetic, "But I also want to enjoy the married life for a few months."

Elia smiles and her cheeks hurt from it. She's so happy.

"How many do you want?" she asks.

Ned shrugs, "I don't know," he murmurs and looks at her, sliding his hands down from her face to the curve of her rump, "Shouldn't I be asking youthat? You will be the one carrying these babes."

Elia laughs and moves, swinging a leg over him, straddling his body. She places her hands over his chest, supporting her weight, and Ned groans, grabbing her thighs. She can feel him, hardening against her back.

"I will give you a hundred sons," she whispers, knowing it is all a lie. Maester Caleotte said she'd wouldn't have many children, but still. She doesn't want to let Ned down, "And a hundred daughters. An army of our own."

Ned smiles, but his thoughts seem far away.

"Does this displease you, my love?" she asks, upset.

"No," he answers, "It's just…" He hesitates, "We must talk about Rhaegar Targaryen."

"I don't want to talk about Rhaegar Targaryen," Elia replies, rocking over him and Ned groans, closing his eyes and biting his lip, trying to remain in control.

"We must," he replies, "If it comes to a war… I will not shy away from the battlefield."

"No," Elia says and she takes him in her hand, aligning him with her entrance just enough. The second penetration is not as bothersome as the first, mayhaps because she's already wet, or his seed helps the friction, but Elia ignores the little pain that she feels.

Ned digs his finger into her thighs, hard enough that she knows it will be bruised when she wakes in the morrow, but he restrains himself, closing his eyes, and opens his mouth to continue speaking.

"Rhaegar is a good man, I know it so. He'll be a better king than his father. I want to serve him, I want to help him take down the Mad King."

 _No_ , Elia thinks, riding him. He couldn't go to war, he couldn't go against the Mad King Aerys. He'd surely die and how would she survive to lose a husband so early in the marriage?

"Don't go," Elia whispers and she doubts he has heard her, so low was her voice, "Stay _."_

 _Stay with me_ , she thinks as her husband groans loudly, coming to a peak once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the next chapter will be out some as quickly. I've been having some difficulties with it :(


	3. lady of winterfell

Lord Eddard Stark towers over his wife, with broad shoulders and long legs in contrast to her small hips and delicate features. He seems older than her and more knowledgeable in the ways of the world, but Oberyn knows that to be untrue. His sister is two years older than her husband, the heir to Winterfell.

They are walking in the gardens together, the two guards that his mother employed to protect them following closely behind, and Oberyn watches it all with a careful eye. Elia is smiling and, when Eddard stops and whispers something in her ear, her smile grows wider, as if that's even possible.

She's wearing a gray dress, with silk skirts, and there are blue flowers in her hair. Oberyn grumbles at the sight. Barely a sennight after the wedding and she already acts like a Stark. He knows his sister loves Eddard, and mayhaps the man loves her as well, but he'd be lying if he said he enjoyed this match.

His sister had to get married eventually, and to a high noble as well, someone befitting her station, but… Oberyn didn't want it to be a northerner. Eddard will take her to his cold land, away from her people, from her home, from _him_.

He turns away from the window, not wanting to see the way that Eddard brushes a lock of black hair behind Elia's ear or how she licks her pink lips in preparation for a kiss. His brother is seated near a table, head bent forward, eyes locked in the game in front of him. Oberyn's eldest daughter, Obara, is in front of him, kicking her legs. They are playing a game of strategy and warfare; Obara's favorite. For some strange reason, Oberyn can’t recall the game or its rules. He never had much passion for such trivialities.

He wants to speak, but for a second, he remains quiet, staring at the ivory and gold pieces and seeing the differences between his brother and daughter. Doran plays every game as if its outcome will define his entire life. He is determined to win, no matter if his opponent is his six-year-old niece or a hardened warrior form a thousand battles. Oberyn can see that his movements are slow and calculated, while Obara's are impulsive and harsh. She makes up in enthusiasm and a desire for losses in her uncle's side. His eldest has had a thirst for blood since he could remember and she wasn't like most girls her age.

When Oberyn brought her home, his mother had tried to make her wear dresses and brush her hair more often than he thought necessary, but Obara had spent the first three years of her life living in a brothel with her whore of a mother and there are not enough luxuries for a growing girl there, even if she is the daughter of a prince. She had only just become used to enough food to sate her hunger and warm baths every night, but that doesn’t mean she has to like dresses and dolls. Oberyn does not mind. His daughters can be or do whatever they want, as long as they are happy.

Obara moves a yellow piece in the form of a snake and she looks at her uncle, biting her lip while daring him to act with her eyes.

Doran sighs.

“Think, Obara,” he murmurs and moves his Maester, restoring two pieces to his side, while making her lose her snake. Obara stares at the game, blushing furiously and Doran turns to his brother, black eyes wide, “You’re angry.”

“Clearly,” Oberyn murmurs, turning away from them. He can’t stare at his brother, who did nothing while the wolves came to steal their darling sister, who _approved_ of the match between Elia and Eddard, “I hate this game. It bores me.”

Obara moves quickly, taking two pieces of Doran and holding it in her small fingers, as hostages up for negotiations. Oberyn doesn't know who is winning.

“Liar,” he answers, scratching his chin and a servant enters the room, leaving a trail of lemon cakes for the princes and Obara, before leaving. Obara eyes the cakes and Doran takes advantage of her distraction to take her Lord with three fast movements of his wolf, “I won.”

“You cheated!” she accuses, pointing a finger at her uncle.

“I don’t cheat,” Doran answers, seriously, and Obara looks at her father, seeking justice and revenge.

“Go find your sisters,” Oberyn murmurs, “You can ask your uncle for a second chance later.”

She seems ready to refuse and demand a rematch, but one look from Oberyn is enough for her to leave, after receiving an affectionate pat in the head by her uncle and a kiss from her father.

“You’re angry about the Starks,” Doran says, taking a lemon cake in his hands, though he doesn’t start eating until he is done talking, "Not my game."

“Well, I’m not angry about the fucking weather, am I?” he asks and Doran’s eyes waver at his crass words. Oberyn sighs and sits next to his brother, taking his own lemon cake. They are Tyene’s favorite. He should save one for her. That is if Obara hasn’t already run off to tell her sisters about the treat in Doran's solar. The thought of his daughters calms his mind just enough for him to express his feelings, “I hate this.”

“So you’ve said,” Doran murmurs, “Elia is a woman and an adult. It was high time that she be married.”

Oberyn bristles.

“She’s twenty,” he says, “You talk as if she has become a burden in your life.”

Doran shakes his head, “You’re not listening to reason, brother,” he says, “Elia loves Eddard. Can’t you see that she will be happy with him?” His words hurt like a thousand festering cuts on Oberyn’s skin, like those that he gave to Edgar Yronwood, “Besides, it will do us good to have an ally in Winterfell. Elia’s son will be Warden of the North someday, fathering an entire line of Starks that will be descended from the Princes of Dorne.”

“I don’t care about that,” Oberyn says.

“You are thinking as a loving brother and not as a Nymeros Martell,” Doran states and, despite his heavy words, there is a small smile on his lips, “I know you care a great deal for her.”

“I love our sister,” Oberyn murmurs and Doran’s smile grows. No doubt the image of Elia, giggling as Eddard twirled her around during their wedding feast, filled his mind. Oberyn knows that it filled his.

“As do I,” he says and Oberyn can feel his shoulders loosening. He was _so_ worried, “Elia loves Eddard and he loves her too. He’s not like his older brother, he will never shame her.”

He nods. Oberyn had heard tales of Brandon’s lusts and how they were plentiful. Drinks, hunts, and women. Oberyn might have struck a friendship with him, they are so alike, if only Lady Lyanna hadn’t planted herself in his way and made him become fond of her. If she wasn’t highborn… He might have started his path for a Snow Snake, though now is too late for such ideas. Not now that Elia is married to Lyanna’s older brother. 

"And besides, it's not Eddard Stark that you hate,” Doran starts, looking away from him, “It’s his land. It’s that he will take Elia away.”

Oberyn blushes. He thought he was being subtle, but there's nothing one can really hide from Doran Martell.

"Winterfell is on the other side of Westeros," Oberyn murmurs and he can hear the pain in his own voice. He looks down at his own feet, “It will be hard for her to visit us, or the other way around.” He moves, uncomfortable in his own skin, "If she had married Prince Rhaegar or even Baelor Hightower, she'd be near enough to allow frequent visits." He had ruined Baelor's possibility with a stupid comment made out of turn and Rhaegar… he was never really an option anyway.

His brother places a hand on his shoulder and Oberyn looks up, staring into Doran’s black eyes, so like his own.

“Elia is of different stock,” he murmurs, shaking his head, “She doesn’t want titles or wealth. I believe she would be happier, were she not a Princess of Dorne and just a common woman with a common husband and common children. She hates these courtly constraints and politics. She just wants a kind husband who loves her and healthy children. I'm sure that she can find that in Eddard Stark.”

“Did she tell you that?” Oberyn asks, but he knows the answer. Elia never tells him those things and she tells him everything.

“I need to only look at our dear sister to know,” he answers, “She looks at Eddard as if he is the ruler of the entire world. She would follow him till the ends of the earth, I know it so.” 

“She would have married him even if he weren’t the heir to the North, even if his brother had lived and he turned into a bannerman for Brandon. She would have married him and done it gladly,” Oberyn murmurs and then a memory pops into his head, “Why do you think Rhaegar insulted her during the feast, calling her a Kinslayer?”

Doran reels back, surprised at his question, and Oberyn smiles privately at the idea of doing something that his brother didn’t see coming.

The heir to Sunspear licks his lips and hesitates, “I think he wanted to do it loudly and to attract attention.”

“He certainly got it,” Oberyn says, “Rhaegar is smarter than this. He did it for a reason. He wanted people to see him arguing with her so they would have their own ideas over his relationship with Elia.” 

“Yes, but he didn’t just offend Elia,” Doran says, touching his chin. His brother doesn’t keep a beard, unlike the Northmen that have filled the Dornish court, “He offended the Starks as well and made sure he was seen doing it.”

“How many nobles of the Crownlands do you think were in attendance?” Oberyn asks, curious.

“Ten, maybe fifteen,” Doran answers and his eyes widen slightly, “The king must have sent his spies to keep an eye on his son. I’ve heard tales from mother and friends in the capital that Aerys doesn’t trust his heir, that they’ve been arguing for many moons. He must have said those things to Elia to make his father think that he isn’t friendly with Houses Martell and Stark, to make him blind to what is coming.”

“And what is coming, Doran?” Oberyn asks and he feels as if he is six years old again, in awe of his seventeen-year-old older brother.

Doran grabs the yellow snake piece, leftover from his game with Obara. His long fingers close around the piece so tightly that it bends.

“War,” he says.

* * *

Elia says goodbye to her family in the harbor nearest to Sunspear, her husband behind her.

She hugs Doran and Mellario and kisses her mother's forehead. The princess of Dorne is seated in her wheelchair, smiling proudly at her daughter, but Elia can see how the smile doesn't reach her dark eyes. When Elia's father died, all the laughter left her mother. She rocks baby Arianne in her arms for a few seconds, delighted in her gurgling niece. Her eldest brother swears to visit Winterfell in the near future, when she has a child, maybe, and to bring Arianne with him for her to meet her little cousin.

"I will make sure that he follows on that promise, princess," Mellario says in that distinctive Norvoshi drawl of her and Elia laughs, hugging her goodsister another time, pressing their bodies together.

When it comes to her second brother, though, Elia doesn't know what to say exactly. Oberyn has been nothing short of displeased with her nuptials, always pointing invisible mistakes and faults on Ned. His three daughters are by his side, rocking on their heels, trying not to run away and go back to their misbehaving, and she tries to focus on them. Elia knows that she will miss her nieces, if only because they make her days less boring, with her running behind them around the keep, trying to get them to wear dresses or stop biting and _Obara, could you please not pull your sister's hair?_

She kisses their faces and hugs them, before she even looks at their father, whispering sweet nothings into their ears. Nymeria wraps her skinny arms around Elia's neck and kisses her cheeks, asking for her to come back soon. Obara lays her head on her belly when they embrace and she seems almost ready to weep, if only she were not so guarded with her feelings. Tyene, blonde hair and innocent blue eyes, cries, barely two years old and not understanding why her aunt is leaving. When Elia promises her to give her a cousin for her to play with soon, the little girl cries louder.

She turns to Oberyn as he picks his daughter on his arms, hushing her with a mastery that only comes when you raise three children alone. Her brother looks at her as if she is a stranger, someone he barely knows.

Elia would miss everyone from Sunspear. She would miss Doran with his quiet cunning; Mellario and her infinite wigs, one more different than the last; Arianne and her cries, so high that one could hear from the other side of the castle when she wanted mother’s milk; and the Sand Snakes, her little nieces. She would miss them all, but it wouldn’t even come close to the way that she will Oberyn. Oberyn, who came only a year after her, who is her best friend, who knows all her secrets. She will miss him like a missing limb.

"I will miss you so much," she says and his face softens.

"I will too," he says, pulling her into an embrace with his free arm. When her head is tucked into his neck and his lips are close to her ear, he whispers, just low enough for her to hear but not loud to attract the attention of the others, "If he ever hurts you, if he even _looks_ at you the wrong way, send me a raven with the word: _nymeros._ Just this word. I will take a sand steed and ride to Winterfell and kill him myself."

Elia doesn't say anything. It's best if she doesn't. Instead, she nods and pulls herself away, looking up at her brother. Despite being a whole year younger, Oberyn has always been taller than her.

"Come to Winterfell," she requests, holding his hand, "At least, when I am with child."

He smiles, his teeth white and sharp, "I wouldn't dream of being away from you then."

Elia grins and hugs him once more, before turning to her husband and taking his offered arm. He pats her hand, kindly rubbing her arm in a comforting way. Elia almost doesn’t want his comfort, only because it’s so necessary. She always knew she’d leave Dorne someday, to live with a man in his castle and bear his babes, but still. Dorne is her birthplace, her land, where the people love her and she loves them in return. Could she truly find all of this in the North?

She will. Elia is determined that she will. _I will make them love me._

* * *

A kiss, gentle against her naked back, traveling down her skin. An open-mouthed touch. Elia giggles and swats him away, but Ned laughs, kissing her lower back before climbing up again and pressing his lips against her left shoulder.

“Tease,” she whispers, though she is smiling “Let me sleep.”

Ned laughs, “It’s the morn already, dear wife,” he says, kissing her shoulder and then her shoulder blade, “It is time you awake. Come, come.” He pulls on her waist and it’s not fair that is so much bigger than her and so much stronger. She comes easily, moved around like a ragdoll, and Elia closes her eyes just for show. Ned kisses her cheeks and her eyelids, softy and with wet lips.

“Let me sleep,” she whispers again, grabbing his hair with her hands. Ned keeps his hair long, just below his shoulder line, and Elia likes it that way when she can hold his tresses with her fingers and pull him down for a kiss.

He presses his lips against hers, sticking his tongue in her mouth, and Elia sighs, wrapping her arms around his neck. Ned laughs, moving his lips to her jaw and caressing her legs. The ship sways around with the waves, but Elia doesn't think of anything else other than her husband. 

He slides his hands over her legs, getting closer and close to the patch of hair and warmth between her thighs when someone knocks on their door. “Lord Eddard?” says a male voice from the other side, a voice that Elia recognizes as one of the Stark servants that came with their lord to Sunspear. She thinks his name is Merrett.

Ned removes his lips from her neck, "What is it?"

“Your father requests your presence, along with Princess Elia, in the deck,” Merrett answers, “We have reached White Harbor, my lord.”

Ned sighs, but removes himself off of her, grabbing his robe from the chair where it was thrown the previous night, and walks to the door, opening it just slightly and whispering something to the man outside. “Very well, my lord,” he answers and Elia sees him turning around to leave.

Her husband turns back to her, “I have asked for your ladies, so you may be dressed,” he murmurs. Elia smiles, laying her head back on her pillow.

“Thank you,” she answers and sees him pick up a pair of breeches and a linen doublet. Elia watches him in silence as he dresses, lacing his pants alone. There is no form in the fabric or beauty. It’s supposed to be practical, she notices. To keep him warm, to protect his body from the biting cold of the North. Wool pants, cotton undershirt, a stained dark doublet. He has no need for a servant or help. Is this because he’s a second son? Elia hardly thinks so. Oberyn has so many clothes and serving girls and valets come and go from his rooms, helping him dress. Eddard is just different. He’s pragmatic.

Her ladies enter. Three girls handpicked by her mother from Dornish noble houses to serve their princess in her new home. Myriah Manwoody, her father’s niece; Aliandra Blackmont, the sister to the Lady of Blackmont and Sylvia Dalt, who comes from a branch line of the knightly house. There is the expectation that they shall marry into northern houses to strengthen the relations between the two countries. Elia thinks she needs to ask Eddard, or even her goodfather, about possible matches.

“I’ll see what my father wants,” her husband says, leaving their room in quick steps.

Elia is naked, her smallclothes having been removed during the night’s trysts, but her ladies say nothing. They help her into a pair of fresh undergarments and pull a new shift over her head, dressing her. She wonders if Eddard disapproves of her needing help, but, if he does, he says nothing. Mayhaps he thinks she is just a southron flower, who needs a maid’s help for everything. Mayhaps he thinks her weak.

Elia wonders if Lyanna has maids to help her dress. She thinks not. The she-wolf is willful and stubborn. She’d probably hate another’s touch, moving her around like she is nothing but a statue to be cared for and made pretty. If that is true, then she will be miserable in her married life with Robert Baratheon. The heir to Storm’s end is nothing short of a man from his own land.

They help her in a blue dress made of wool and Elia suddenly feels much warmer and safer, though she had barely noticed the cold in her cabin. Ned keeps her warm and the furs covering her bed are stifling hot. _I am of Dorne,_ she thinks, _I have the sun inside me. The cold doesn’t bother me._ Aliandra braids her hair quickly; she’s so talented with these things.

When she is nearly done, she refuses the jewelry offered by them. Lady Lyanna rarely wears hers, as did the Lady Manderly. Northern ladies aren't really interested in being pretty when there is a winter to survive. And Elia is now Lady of Winterfell, with her husband's mother dead.

She leaves her rooms and walks to the deck, where Lord Rickard, Ned, and Lyanna are waiting for her. Lyanna wriggles her hands together, staring at the port as a small boat carrying the Manderly's standard sails to them, and a scowl twists her pretty face, but, when she sees Elia approaching, her face softens. Rickard looks at her and almost smiles.

Elia curtsies to him, "Goodfather," she murmurs, before walking to stand beside Ned.

Lyanna is wearing a gray dress, with a high neckline. She takes Elia’s hand and smiles.

“There is so much I have to show you,” she says, speaking fast, “The Glass Gardens, the woods. Father said I can choose your northern ladies, to help your dornish ones." Lyanna smiles, a toothy and wolfish grin.

Elia doesn't know what to answer. She had seen Lyanna only once before, during her first visit to Winterfell, and her goodsister had never attempted to become closer to her, unlike her relations with Oberyn, which were extremely friendly.

Now, though, Elia is her sister, married to her brother. They will live together in Winterfell until Lyanna is ready to wed Robert Baratheon. It makes sense for the girl to offer a hand in friendship.

She smiles.

"Thank you, Lya," Elia says, using the nickname that Ned often mentioned in his letters.

Lyanna's smile grows at the same time that the small boat reaches their ship.

When they arrive in White Harbor, hours later, Lord Wyman Manderly and his wife are waiting for them, along with their two sons and part of their household. Wyman and the Lady Jeyne are wearing the colors of the house, green and blue.

"Lord Stark," says Wyman, placing his hands on his massive belly. Elia notices that his fingers are the size of sausages, "You must be tired after your journey. We offer you and your family warm baths and comfortable beds to rest before we ride to Winterfell tomorrow, together."

Rickard looks at his children, Lyanna and Eddard, and Elia knows that he must be thinking of little Benjen, stuck in his family's seat as the Stark of Winterfell. _My father screamed when I came back with him atop my horse. I've never seen him in so much pain or so devastated_ , Eddard had said when describing his brother's death. Rickard loves his children and he must surely miss Benjen, the youngest of the four and the babe. When his blue-gray eyes pass through her, Elia nods, slightly. She might be the Lady of Winterfell now, but Rickard is still the Lord, head of House Stark. She will do whatever he wishes.

"Very well," he says, taking off his leather gloves, "But I'd like to speak with your maester, my lord. There is a message that needs to be written to Winterfell."

"Of course," says Wyman and he looks at his son and heir with small beady eyes, "Wylis, take his lordship to the Maester's tower."

"Very well, father," Wylis answers and that is the end of the talk in the courtyard.

A small woman, with yellow hair and big round eyes, walks to Elia.

"Lady Stark," she says in her high sing-song voice. She can't be older than forty, "I'm here to take you to your chambers."

Elia looks at Ned. His head is bent next to his sister's and they are whispering together. When he notices her staring, he looks up and smiles, the glow reaching his gray eyes. She smiles back and jerks her head towards the castle. Ned nods.

"Of course," Elia murmurs, turning back to the woman, "Please, lead the way."

The woman takes her inside the warm keep of White Harbor and the servants step away as Elia walks, curtsying respectfully for the new Lady of Winterfell. She wonders if she's the first dornishwoman they have ever seen, even if some of them worked when she first arrived in White Harbor, three years before. Maybe, or maybe her mother was the first. Even if she was, it hardly matters now.

Her rooms are turned to the sea, Elia notices, and she has a good view of the waves, lapping and breaking over the rocks surrounding White Harbor. Her sheets are blue-green, with white accents, resembling sea foam. There is a merman sculpted into the bed's wooden work, as there is a stone one near the hearth. Someone kept the fire raging for hours before she arrived and the room is warm. 

“I’d like to eat now,” Elia says, turning to the woman, “Will food be provided for us in our rooms or should we join his lordship?”

“Whatever pleases you, my lady,” she answers, “Lord Wyman has told me to say that he will not feel offended if you decide to stay in your rooms after such a strenuous journey.”

Elia nods, “I’d prefer to do it here. Please, inform my husband and say where I will be. If Lord Stark should ask for me, say that I am indisposed.”

The woman nods, “Would you like me to call the maester for you, my lady?”

Elia shakes her head. Her stomach grumbles and nausea is slowly taking her, but she has no need for a master. It’s either seasickness or the beginning of a bad spell, ones that she has had since she was a little girl. White Harbor’s maester could do little to help her.

The woman leaves and Elia sits in a table near the fire, close enough to the window to watch the ship carrying the Stark banner being moved by the waves. In Dorne, the sea is blue, almost green, and there are a thousand fishes jumping out or swimming up to the shores for treats from the hands of noble dornish children, but in the North, it’s gray and dead, or so Elia sees. She imagines a hundred monsters lurking underneath the dark waters, just waiting for the moment to jump and catch their prey. Sharks, she thinks, or whales big enough to swallow a man whole. Elia is suddenly very glad to have left the sea for the safety of land.

She heard a story once, about a northern king who was too fond of the water and built himself a large fleet to rival his enemies’. They called him Brandon the Shipwright and the name fitted him well, until, one day, the northern king forgot his duties and tried to cross the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. His son, another Brandon, burned his father’s entire fleet in grief and the North has had no naval power since then.

Elia hums, watching her husband’s ship prowling around the sea. His father must have built it during the previous year when the Northmen were getting ready for her wedding, and so, they could cross the continent more easily.

The door opens and Ned walks in, smiling. The sight of him makes her heart soar and jump in her chest. Her husband. She can barely believe it, though a whole moon has turned since their wedding.

“Hello,” he says, sitting by her side, “They told me you’re not feeling well?”

“Just my stomach,” Elia says, “I fear I am not the best sailor.”

Ned smiles and places his hand over hers, where it lays on her many blue skirts. His touch is warm and she feels much better next to him as if his very presence calms the roars in her belly.

“Forgive me for not joining you earlier,” he says, “Lyanna had… she is worried.”

“About what?” Elia asks, frowning. Lyanna seemed fine when they saw each other earlier, though she had a scowl on. Perhaps the sea doesn’t agree with her, as it did Elia? “Is she not pleased that I am going to live in Winterfell with her? That I have displaced her as Lady Stark?”

Ned blushes and she shakes his head, “No, she doesn’t care about that. It’s Father. When we were in our rooms, he told her that her wedding date has been set. In three years’ time. Lyanna is only fifteen, will be eighteen by the time she enters Storm’s End’s sept.” He sighs and removes his hand, rubbing his face, “She doesn’t want this match. Mother promised her a northern husband and that is what she expected, not Robert.”

“Your sister wouldn’t be the first woman who had reservations about her marriage,” Elia murmurs, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

“I know,” Ned says, “But Robert… he’s my best friend, closer than a brother, but I can’t lie about his character. He’s handsome, yes, but hungry. Not just for boars or drinks, though the gods know how much he loves those, but for women as well. He has a bastard daughter.” Elia doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even blink, though her heart is pounding in her chest. A bastard daughter. Mistresses and whores are one thing, but one of these loves bore a child, a child who will live and may contest her father’s legitimate heirs, and well, when one child comes, another will surely follow. “Mya. I held her, rocked her and played with her. When she asked me about the girl, I couldn’t lie and, well, Lyanna was certainly less enthusiastic about becoming the Lady of Storm’s End after that.” 

“Robert loves Lyanna,” Elia says, remembering the man trying to convince Lyanna to dance and grinning broadly when she reluctantly did.

“Robert loves Lyanna,” he says, “And mayhaps she will come to love him as well, but I doubt she will be entirely happy with his lusts.”

Elia nods. Lyanna is a strong girl, with a stubborn heart. If she is not happy with the upcoming marriage to Robert, then that shall be it. There is nothing one can do to change. Elia almost thinks about talking to her, trying to make her be happy with her future as Lady Baratheon, but then she remembers that her marriage to Eddard wasn’t built from an alliance, but out of love, like her mother’s had been.

Suddenly, Elia wonders if she or Ned will allow their daughters the same thing; to marry for love. A romantic part of her hopes that they do, but a more mature part, one that her mother had ingrained in her after so many years of lessons, in case anything should happen to Doran and she becomes heir to Sunspear, knows that it can be hard. Her mother had married Viktor Manwoody who, while from low standing, was still a noble and Elia married Eddard Stark, now first in line to succeed his father as Warden of the North. It’s not like she fell in love with a butcher or a kennelmaster.

“Don’t worry about your sister, my love,” Elia says, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, "If she truly doesn't want this match, she would have done something by now."

Ned nods and he seems much more relaxed, less worried about his sister. He is her protector, her guardian, her northern warrior and she prays that he will be the same, if not more, for their daughters. They will want for nothing with such a devoted father.

Three servants enter, carrying their food. Fruits and cheeses, roasted duck and a large flagon of wine. Ned murmurs his thanks and they leave in quick steps, though one remains behind, taking the bottle of wine and serving it to Elia and her husband. When she is done, she walks to the wall, holding the flagon close.

They eat in silence and the room is only filled through the sound of their mouths chewing and the cutlery scratching Lord Manderly’s iron plates.

Elia finishes before Ned. She looks at her husband and sees a crease between his brows and his lips are pinched shut. Elia can see that he has his pensive face on.

“What is it?” she asks, “Are you still thinking about your sister?”

Ned shakes his head, “No, that’s not it.” He puts his knife and fork down.

“Then what is?’ Elia says.

 _Tell me, my love,_ she thinks, desperately, _share your burdens with me. Let me help you._

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” he says and looks at her. Elia feels her cheeks redden and she wants to get up and run off this woman. Has she not made it clear enough that she doesn’t want to speak about Rhaegar Targaryen? When Ned realizes her desire to leave, he holds her hand, “It’s not about the war or anything. It’s just… He told you that he’s planning on marrying Catelyn Tully. In secret.”

“He told me that he’s planning on marrying a Tully girl,” Elia answers and she remembers Rhaegar’s note. _Tell the world that the dragon prince will marry the trout lady and that we will need the wolf and the sun with us._ “Lady Catelyn has a younger sister. Lysa. She would make do.”

“And what prince in this world would choose a second daughter instead of a first?” Ned asks, laughing. When he looks at her, at the look on her face, he stops laughing, “What is it, dear?”

“Catelyn Tully,” she says, looking down at her lap. Gods, she’s so ashamed, “After Brandon, my mother and brothers were worried that you were going to set me aside for her. She is the daughter of a Great House, after all, and your father seemed keen on making her the next Lady of Winterfell. I feared the same as them.”

“We were already promised to one another when Brandon died,” Eddard states.

“Oh, I know,” Elia murmurs, shrugging, “But I was scared. I know I am not the most beautiful woman in the world and all I heard were tales coming from Riverrun about Lady Catelyn’s beauty; her red hair, her blue eyes, her perfect white skin. I pale in comparison to her.”

“Oh, Elia,” Ned whispers, taking her face in his hands, “It doesn’t matter to me if Lady Catelyn was the she-wolf of Winterfell come again, or the most beautiful woman in the world. I’d still choose you.” She smiles and her heart soars in her chest. She wants to kiss Ned and be hugged and embraced by him, to have her worries melt away with the warmth of his touch, but Elia remembers the serving girl in the corner of the room and restrains herself, "I'm sure that the Lady Catelyn has many attributes, but she's not you, she's not the woman that I love." He blinks and licks his lips, perhaps wanting the same thing as she, "Besides, my father never even considered breaking our betrothal in Lady Catelyn's name. You had nothing to worry about, my love."

Elia smiles and a weight leaves her shoulders. They were married already, with a consummated union, and yet she couldn’t help but worry. Catelyn Tully had been betrothed to Brandon once and tradition dictated that she be married to his younger brother in his stead, but Elia and Ned belonged together. They were married in the eyes of the Seven and soon would be in the eyes of his gods as well.

And Catelyn would marry Rhaegar Targaryen. She’d be queen someday and her son will inherit the throne. Elia should be jealous of her for that, that is every lady’s dream, though she doesn’t really care about her possible if-something-had-not-happened husband. Her place is beside Ned and he is no prince.

“Let us not speak of her anymore,” Elia says, placing her hands over Ned’s, still on her face.

“Speak of whom?” Ned asks, feigning ignorance and she giggles.

“You’re sweet,” Elia murmurs and kisses him lightly, just a press of lips.

He finishes eating and they stay together for a few hours, holding hands and whispering things to one another. The servants come and go, taking their plates and leftovers away, but Elia and Ned remain. Together, as one.

They lay in her bed, Elia’s head on Ned’s chest, and he plays with her hair, taking it off the braid. Elia has long black tresses, straight as a pin, that reaches her hips and her husband seems rather taken by it. His touch is so calming that she feels herself dozing off, hearing the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore.

Elia falls asleep with Ned's lips on her hair.

She dreams about a man with long silver hair and light purple eyes. He looks like Rhaegar, but she can see that he isn't the crown prince. His skin is darker, his features meaner, and he reminds Elia of Oberyn. Blood leaks from his nose as a woman screams faraway and he collapses back. When he falls to the ground, his head is a red ruin of blood, brain, and bone. Horrifying, terrible and Elia screams so loudly that she wakes up.

She's still in the rooms at New Castle in White Harbor, but it's not day anymore and Ned is not by her side. There is an iron tub near the hearth, filled to the brim with water, hot enough for steam to rise out of it, and a woman stands next to Elia's bed. She has dark red hair and bright blue eyes, with a large nose. Elia realizes that she was tasked with waking her up so she could take her bath.

“I will call for your ladies, princess,” says the woman as she leaves the bed, “So you may take your bath.”

Elia nods and the woman leaves with a curtsy.

Her ladies come to undress her and when they leave, she enters her tub, hissing at the heat against her skin, but doesn’t complain. The water sloshes around her, accommodating her small body, and Elia sinks in, grateful to finally have a bath, a true bath. On a ship, all the free water available is destined for drinking and cooking and she couldn’t very well clean herself with seawater. Lord Stark couldn’t afford to stop many times as well.

She takes a white cloth and dips it into a soapy bowl next to her, full of foam. Elia cleans the space between her legs, her breasts and underneath her arms. She cleans her neck and hands, rubbing between her fingers. She washes her legs and dips back into the water, allowing her hair to become wet and pliable to a brush.

She could have easily asked for a lady to stay or even a handmaiden to brush her hair, but Elia prefers to do it by herself. If she closes her eyes, she could pretend that she is still in Sunspear and that the hand holding the brush is not her own, but her mother’s. 

Once she leaves the bath, Elia dries herself with a linen towel and tries to get dressed alone. It takes thrice as long as it would with ladies, but she manages to get it done. She puts on a red gown and a pair of silver bracelets before leaving her chambers to find Ned and his family for supper.

* * *

When Elia was a child, Septa Alessa used to take her to the Sept in Sunspear, so that the gods’ light hitting the stained glass commissioned by her great-great-great-grandfather could reach the little princess. They did this every day, to pray and to learn. Elia would thank the Mother and Father for her health and youth, as she was told, and asked the Crone for wisdom to pass her lessons with Maester Caleotte. Afterward, Septa Alessa would take Elia aside and ask her a question, the same question every day, for almost sixteen years.

“What is a woman’s duties?” she asked, caressing Elia’s cheek with a dark-skinned hand.

“To be good, to follow the Seven and obey their laws,” Elia would answer, repeating the same practiced words, “To please her husband, to run his house.”

“Very good,” Septa Alessa said, “If you are a perfect lady, the Mother will bless your house with sons to carry your husband’s name beyond. If you are not,” she twisted her lips, “It’s best if you don’t find out.”

There was nothing Elia wanted more than to be a perfect lady and she plans on being one, but it's _hard_.

Maester Walys gives her a list of all the servants in Winterfell and they come flocking to her, asking a thousand questions. _What shall be tonight’s dinner, my lady?_ or _The venison stocks are dwindling, princess. Should we send men out into the woods to hunt?_ or _My lady, three guards are requesting a raise of their wages. What do you think we must do?_ She tries to answer them as best as she can, but it’s hard and her head aches every night before bed, a pain that only Ned can send away, with his gentle touch and loving kisses.

When Elia left Sunspear, Septa Alessa had already died and, her replacement, Septa Melarie told her to practice patience and prayer. If she does that enough, the gods will give her a sense of belonging in her new home, her _eternal_ home, now that she is married.

She prays and is patient, but the gods have yet to reward her and Elia is starting to think that Septa Melarie was lying.

Ned had a surprise waiting for her when she arrived in Winterfell, though, and that helps her adjust, albeit slowly. A sept for herself, smaller than the one at Sunspear, but still a sept, meant for a small congregation of just one woman. Every time she enters, whether to light a candle to the gods or pray for guidance, Elia feels much better, as if the smell of the oils or the energy of her gods have released the tension in her shoulders.

Today, Elia has a dark veil covering her head as Septon Chayle swings his incense thurible, letting the smoke fill her nostrils. She’s barely able to see his round face through the thick fabric, but she hears his words, ringing in her ears. “Seven, we ask of you, we beseech you. Father, protect your daughter. Let her know true justice. Mother, save your daughter. Give her the compassion to deal with her troubles. Warrior, strengthen your daughter. Make her brave in this new life. Smith, mend your daughter. Help her do the work that needs to be done. Maiden, relieve your daughter. Allow her to shed her childhood innocence. Crone, guide your daughter. Grant her the wisdom to rule this keep.” He does not ask anything of the Stranger and Elia is thankful for it. She does not wish to learn what might be the Stranger’s gifts.

Instead, she focuses her eyes on the statue of the Mother, carved by a stonemason during those three years that Elia and Ned were only betrothed, with a promised future, when he had this sept built to please her. The goddess has a kind smile on her face and she has her hand stretched in front of her as if a single touch could bring her back to life. She reminds Elia of her own mother and Mellario, cradling Arianne to her breast and singing old Norvoshi songs.

“My lady,” Elia whispers, so low that she thinks Septon Chayle has not heard her, “My Mother, I ask of you. Give me a child. A son to carry his father’s name. A daughter to bear my looks. Give me a child.”

The Mother’s smile grows greater, but that might have been a folly from Elia’s covered eyes.

She asks for much more. Guidance, protection, and wisdom, but, when she leaves the sept to return to the warmth of Winterfell’s Great Keep and her bed furs, eager for a well-needed rest before she rises up again to settle a fight between two serving girls that has been bothering Vayon Poole for weeks, she finds only wisdom coming her way. Walys, the maester in service to House Stark, smiles when he sees Elia and glides next to her, hiding his hands in his large bell sleeves. She doesn’t see any letters between his fingers, but her eyes might be deceiving her.

“My lady,” he murmurs, bowing his head.

“Good Maester,” Elia says, “Have you got something for me?” She doesn’t hide the hope in her voice. Oberyn writes her often, as does her mother, Doran, and Mellario. She has even received a letter or two from Obara, who has recently learned how to read and write. Mayhaps, another letter from her family has arrived. Elia rather misses them.

“Not really, my lady,” he says, “I’ve come with a complaint from your ladies. They say that you are running yourself thin, that you are not taking care of yourself.” He sighs and Elia feels that a scold is coming her way and she feels small, young again, “They have told me that you haven’t bled in three moons. That means your body is under stress, my lady. I beg of you to rest. I will talk to Lord Stark to convince Eddard or Lyanna to take your duties-”

Elia has stopped listening. Her ears buzz and she takes a deep breath.

“What did you say?” she asks and Maester Walys looks up at her, taken back by the interruption.

“I said that I will talk to Lord Stark to relieve you of some of your duties, my lady,” he murmurs, settling himself back on to his maester’s shoes, “Once you are more stable here in Winterfell, I’ll let him know that you can return to your role as Lady.”

“No,” Elia says, “Before that.”

“Your body is under stress?” he tries and Elia shakes her head. Once Walys realizes, he steps forward, “You haven’t bled in three moons.”

“I haven’t bled in three moons,” Elia repeats and can barely believe it. Surely, she must have bled since she came to Winterfell, hasn’t she? Elia tries to remember waking up in her rooms, surrounded by stone gray walls, with blood staining her furs and sheets, but, for every fiber in her being working to conjure that memory, she fails. Elia knows that she had her moon’s blood a sennight after her wedding to Ned, an idea that provided sadness for her since it meant that no child could have been conceived during their first night together, but after that, her mind is blank.

Since she was fourteen years old, once her moon’s blood stabilized, Elia has always bled in the second week of the moon’s turn. It’s already the fourth and no sign of it.

“Come, my lady,” Walys says, pulling her gently by the arm to the maester’s turret, just below the rookery. Elia goes without complaint.

He sits her near his writing-table and opens a large book, _Trials of Women: Pregnancy and Childbirth by Archmaester Callor._ Elia wriggles her hands together, rubbing her thumb in her palm, and takes a deep breath.

“Oh, Good Mother,” she whispers, so low that she doesn’t even hear it, “Please, make it true.”

Walys reads the pages in quick breaths and Elia holds her own, too scared and anxious to do anything.

“Have you been experiencing sickness, especially during the morning?” he asks, closing the book and putting it aside.

“Sometimes,” Elia answers and she feels stupid just by saying it, “But I get sick so often. I thought it was normal.”

Walys nods and he writes something in a paper, concentrated.

“Have you felt more tired than normal, or pains?” he asks, but he has to know the answer, for he turns around to his herbs and begins to prepare pastes and liquids for her to swallow down. Elia suspects that Ned must have told something to Maester Walys, of her easiness to sleep at night, or her aching back and swollen feet.

She waits before she answers, but for what, she doesn’t know. Walys heats up a kettle of water in his hearth and Elia remains quiet, rubbing her thumb in her palm. He sticks leaves of mint inside a white pot and crushes them with an equally white handle; he takes a branch of dragon’s breath and places it underneath a candle’s flame, watching it burn before placing the ashes inside his pot. He takes a spoonful of a golden syrup and lets the cold wind entering from the open window to harden it. When it’s all done, she speaks.

“Yes, maester Walys,” Elia says and he turns back around at her, handing a small brown cup, filled to the brim with an almost transparent liquid, similar to tea, with the thickness of water. Elia can see the mint leaves that haven’t been broken down floating in the drink.

“Only time will tell,” he murmurs, “But I am certain that you are with child, my lady. A thousand congratulations to you.” He looks to her hand, where the cup still remains intact, “Drink, drink. It will help you sleep.”

“There are people who must know…” she starts and he raises his hand.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Walys says, “I will tell Lord Stark and your husband. You shan’t worry about anything.”

Elia drinks in one long tilt. She has always been good at obeying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elia DIDNT drink moon tea!!!!! i promise!!! the ingredients are different!


	4. lord of storm's end

“Come in,” his father says, voice muffled from behind the door.

Ned lowers his hand, fingers still clutched into a fist as if he would knock again and sighs. He chews his lower lip, composing himself and opens the door, He finds Rickard Stark sitting on his chair, drafting letters. His father is wearing a gray doublet, with black breeches and his riding boots. Lyanna said that he just returned from a ride around the wolfswood, as he is fond of doing. It’s why Ned decided to come now when he is more calm and happy.

His father’s blue-gray eyes rise to meet him and Ned finds himself adjusting his stance, trying to look taller and more respectable. He can feel those big eyes appraising him from head to toe, and Ned imagines that his father can name every fault in his posture, from the way his head is held high to the space between his feet. Lord Stark has always been quite good at this sort of thing.

Still, father says nothing and only lays his hands over his potbelly.

“Eddard,” father murmurs in greeting and Ned nods. He doesn’t remember being called Ned by the Lord, as the nickname was created by his mother when he was still young and living in Winterfell. “How is your wife?”

“Well, thank you,” he answers, thinking about the woman he left back in her bed. She had been sleeping, her hair swept back into a tight bun, with her two hands lying underneath her right cheek, pressed against the pillow. The child makes her tired and she sleeps more often than not, even forcing Ned to dress himself in the dark to allow her continuous slumber. Maester Walys said that being tired is normal, as her body is working double to ensure a healthy babe and that everyone must work to accommodate the Lady Elia, for she carried the heir to the North in her belly. Lyanna and Benjen decided, silently, to take her duties as Lady of Winterfell, helping their goodsister, and Ned still doesn’t know how to thank his siblings. 

The idea of his impending fatherhood is strange on his mind and, although he wished for some alone time with Elia, perhaps a year or two without children, he can’t say he’s not excited for oncoming arrival. His wife’s pregnancy is reaching its third moon, only six more before the child is here, and everything is going smoothly, according to Maester Walys. He says that Elia is fine, the babe is growing well and he shouldn’t worry, but it’s so easy to worry about his wife when she is little more than skin and bones, her belly protruding from her hips as if she has been afflicted with worms.

But his father doesn’t need to know that. Mother used to say that a man must not know all his victories, for he might be blinded against his future failures. 

“Sit,” his father says, pointing to a chair with his hands and Ned is quick to obey. Although he’s now the heir to Winterfell, little has changed when it comes to the relationship he has with his father. “Is something wrong?” Ned came to his father’s solar on his own initiative, instead of being summoned.

He shakes his head, “No. It’s just.” He hesitates and licks his lower lip, trying to remember which decisions he made in the past lead him to this moment, “Some of our vassals have requested the hands of Elia’s ladies in marriage.”

Father hums, touching his beard with his hand, as he does when he is thinking. Ned waits for him to speak, or to even give him permission to continue talking.

“I thought that’d happen once the pregnancy was announced,” Lord Rickard says, “Who?”

Ned pulls the scrolls out of his pockets, hidden near his heart, and places them atop his father’s desk. He does so with a quiet grunt, squinting as he tries to read. Lyanna said that his vision has not been the best, that he often had her read for him in his solar when his eyes were tired. Ned doesn’t know how he feels about it. For his entire life, his father has been a bear. No, a wolf. Strong and brave, without showing weakness, not even to his own family. His rule over the North was with an iron fist, and his enemies learned to fear him quite quickly.

But now, his father is getting old, as most men do. It’s strange to think that he may die soon and that Ned will be Lord of Winterfell in his stead. Ned is only eight and ten, barely a man, but he will, one day, rule over the entire North. His kingdom will be the largest one of the Seven others, though with, admittedly, fewer men. He can’t imagine himself ever being ready for such a task, to have the lives of so many people on his hands, but he has to. It’s what he’s been preparing for the past year.

Since Brandon’s death, Lord Rickard has been grooming him to be the next Lord and Warden. If he was any younger, Ned might have reveled in the attention, but now, it’s taste is bittersweet in his mouth. He is only the heir because Brandon is dead and he will only be the Lord once his father dies. How can he be a good Warden when the beginning of his rule is marred by so many deaths?

He thinks that this is how every rule begins. With deaths, and blood.

 _Is this how you feel, Rhaegar?,_ he wonders, thinking about the silver prince in King’s Landing, _Will you kill your father, or merely call for a Great Council? The charred bodies keep piling up and the kingdoms can’t handle much longer._

Rhaegar Targaryen couldn’t wish for just a Great Council, however. He had promised himself to Catelyn Tully, whose father ruled the Riverlands, and that was without the Mad King’s permission. That enough had caused bloody wars before.

Ned shakes his head slightly, forcing himself to return to the moment.

“Lord Cerwyn has asked for the hand of Lady Myriah Manwoody and offers to come to Winterfell to meet and court her,” Ned murmurs. He read the ravens over and over and knows them by memory now. “Lord Manderly offers his son and heir, Wylis, for Aliandra Blackmont.” Aliandra is on the plumper side and, like Elia, a devout follower of the Seven. She’d do well as Lady Manderly and may even find happiness in time, “And Lord Umber invites Sylvia Dalt to meet the Last Hearth.”

Father nods.

“Their fathers wrote to me, as did Lady Blackmont, saying that I am free to negotiate their marriages as I see fit,” he says, “I imagine these northern lords are eager to find a bride in Winterfell.”

Ned nods. He imagined so as well. To have a wife who is a close friend of Lady Stark must be attractive enough for even the most loyal lords. He can’t imagine any other reason why especially considering that most of them have never even met his wife’s ladies.

"Your marriage to Princess Elia Martell has brought us great fortune, Eddard," he states, looking at his desk, "White Harbor tells me of new merchants flocking to our lands, bringing ships and cartons full of lemons, plums, cloths, spices and so many other _exotic_ products that could only be obtained by this match." He smiles, "Our people have never tasted such rich flavors or worn precious fabrics as these dornish silks."

Ned bows, awkwardly, "Thank you, father."

Father looks at the window and his gaze seems distant as if his thoughts are not on the present and his conversation with Ned, but somewhere else.

"Did you know that when Brandon's death was announced, I received two ravens?" Ned shakes his head, "One from Riverrun and the other from Sunspear. Alongside his polite condolences, Lord Tully, my good friend, told me that nothing had to change, that he still hoped to make his daughter Lady of Winterfell, if you'd have her and talked of offering young Edmure for Elia, so her mother wouldn't have to worry about an unmarried daughter. I imagine he sent a similar raven to your goodmother, as Princess Loreza, said that if accepted the deal, the might of Dorne would fall upon my house and land." He laughs, but it sounds fake and wrong. Ned studies his father's face, trying to read into his emotions, but it's as passive as ever, "Lemons and war. I thought it was quite an easy choice."

Ned licks his lips, wondering what is the right answer for this.

"I didn't want to marry Catelyn Tully, father," he says. _I wanted Elia,_ he thinks, desperately and remembers the first time he met her. She was wearing a green dress and a ruby necklace that didn't match, with her black hair flowing on her shoulders. The prettiest woman to ever grace the halls of Winterfell, in his humble opinion, with almond-shaped black eyes. Ned fell in love with her at first sight. She looked at him and _saw_ him, the true him. She had called him _my lord_ and bowed sweetly, smiling. It was the first time anyone outside of Winterfell paid him such deference. Elia never desired to be Lady of Winterfell, elsewise she'd have gone after Brandon. The only person in the entire world to ever choose him over his older brother was her. Could Lady Catelyn ever say that?

_I've wanted Elia since I was five and ten. Catelyn is beautiful, but Elia is mine. I wanted her then and I want her still._

The laugh leaves Lord Rickard and his father goes quiet, looking intently at him. He searches his face, leaning forward slightly. “There’s something e else,” he murmurs, “What are you hiding, Eddard?”

Ned sighs. He’s not hiding anything, exactly. Just… hesitating to give his father this news. But well, he should have known that it would be hard to hide this from the Lord Paramount of the North.

“Lord Ryswell,” he murmurs and father frowns, "He offers his second daughter, Barbrey, as a bride for Benjen."

Rickard Stark hums, touching his beard, and Ned bites his inner cheek. The soft tissue of it is full of scars from years of anxiously biting it, and there is nothing he could do to remedy his own personal issues.

“What do you think about that, my son?” he asks and Ned tries not to show surprise. Ever since Brandon died, Lord Rickard has been asking more and more for his opinions.

He licks his lips.

“I think that few Great southern Houses would be willing to vanquish a daughter for him,” he murmurs. Ned loves Benjen, but he’s only second in line to inherit Winterfell, not the greatest offer for potential brides. “We were lucky enough with the Martells. I can’t see that happening again.” He thinks about Barbrey Ryswell. He never met her, but Brandon did during his fostering at Barrowtow, as the two lords are close friends. She is Lyanna’s age and described as a pretty thing, with brown hair and eyes. A little older than Benjen, but already flowered and ready to bear children, according to her father’s letter. “My marriage to Elia Martell and Lyanna’s betrothal to Robert Baratheon, as well as Brandon’s could make our lords think that we are too southron. Marrying Benjen to Lady Barbrey could make them see that we are still northerners and loyal to our own, above all.”

Father nods and his gray eyes seem far away.

“Sounds good and I agree,” he says, “But I’m afraid that planning weddings has never been one of my strengths. Your mother and Princess Martell for you and Elia, as well as the early plannings of Brandon and Lady Tully before fever took her.” He stays quiet for a second and Ned knows that he’s thinking about his mother, Lady Lyarra Stark. When mother died, father seemed to be almost grieving, until he remembered who he was and his face returned to its usual coldness. “Please ask your wife to take care of everything, as well as the weddings of her own ladies. I’m sure she will have more success in it than I do.”

Ned nods and stands up, knowing that it’s the end of the conversation. He bows respectfully to his father and turns, walking towards the door. His hand is almost at the wood when his father’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, stilling his movements and freezing his heart at its place.

“If only Benjen was a girl,” he says, wistfully, “We could marry a _Barba_ Stark to Jaime Lannister and add the Westerlands to Prince Rhaegar’s cause.”

Ned turns on his heels, looking at his father as if seeing him for the first time. Lord Rickard doesn’t seem aware of the effects of his words, squinting at a paper in front of him.

“What?” he asks and his voice breaks like glass.

Father’s gray eyes turn to him and he arches his brows.

“Surprised?” he asks, “I’ve always wanted Benjen to be a girl. I had an heir and a spare, no need for a third son that might cause a succession crisis one day. Lyanna wanted him to be a girl too, as did your mother. I was quite disappointed when he came, but can’t say it lasted for long. I kept hearing my father’s voice in my ear. _A man should love his sons more than his daughters,_ so I swallowed my disappointment. Suppose even thirty years after his death, I can’t help but wish to gain his approval.” He shrugs, “The gods gave me a third son because they knew Brandon would die early and I’d have the need for a new spare Stark heir.” His smile is cold, “Don’t look so shocked. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a second daughter.”

But Ned has barely heard what he said next. His ears are buzzing and the blood rushes to his head so quickly that he has to catch himself, holding the wall. “You know?” There is no doubt in the air as to what they are talking about.

“Of course I know, Eddard.” He sighs, leaning back on his chair, "You should have told me." He shakes his head, “I wasn’t pleased, I admit when I realized that my son and gooddaughter were planning a war behind my back.”

Ned wants to say that Elia doesn’t want to think about the war, that she’s a pacifist at heart, and it’s only him who is even considering. Gods, he has yet to send a raven to Robert explaining everything.

But he can’t speak at all, save for one word.

“How?”

His father rolls his eyes.

“Do you truly think I’m that senile, son?” he asks, “I have eyes and ears, still, and I’m always watching. Oh, how strange it was to see Prince Rhaegar accuse your wife of murdering your brother out of nowhere. And without a reason?” Rickard touches his beard, “His Grace is smart, everyone says so. That had to have happened for a reason. But what reason? I mulled it over for days, unable to speak, only to think. Why did Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, desire to appear in bad terms with your wife? With us? And then I remembered.” 

He puts his paper down, touching his fingertips on the table, barely moving, “I visited the capital once, many a year ago. Can't recall the motive, unfortunately, although maybe something with the winter, a plea for help. Possibly. You were so young and Lyanna barely out of her swaddlings. I don't think you even remember me being gone," It's true. Ned can't think of a time growing up when his father wasn't in Winterfell, ruling over everything with an eagle's eye. He didn't even know about this visit to King's Landing until now, "I talked with His Grace and listened to his ramblings. He told me of a plan of his. Oh, how his eyes glinted that day. It's hard to forget a man with violet eyes, especially ones who glow like a thousand stars. He talked about a dream he had, where he built another Wall, a thousand miles north further into the tundra, and claimed all the land in between. I remember laughing privately when he told me that. There are no records of how the first one was built, how did he plan to build a second one? But he forgot that plan soon enough, even before I left the capital, and found a new more daring idea to mark his reign in history. That's how he was in the early years of his reign. Dreamy, prone to flights of fancy before forgetting everything."

Ned feels himself shrinking beneath his father's hard gaze. He's ashamed, but, more than that, curious, to know how he figured everything out.

"I didn't know that," he murmurs, meekly.

"There are many things you don't know, Eddard." He stands up. Father has always been taller than him, even more than Brandon and Ned feels like he's four again, being caught stealing cakes from the kitchens, "After the Defiance of Duskendale in 275, the King came back a changed man. His executions turned drastic, even barbaric. His court is a hollow place filled with the ghosts of his victims and the cries of his wife can be heard everywhere. All the Great Lords know that the last shred of his sanity is gone, bathed in the blood of the Darklyns and Hollards. That was a terrible affair, to destroy two noble houses like that as if they were nothing." Rickard shakes his head. "The last King to do such a thing was Aegon IV and what did he ever give us? The Blackfyres and a century of war. Aerys even wears the same crown as the Unworthy."

"King Aerys had many mistresses, but stopped before Prince Viserys was born."

"Yes, that's correct, but a lack of mistresses do not a good man make. The King is mad and this realm bleeds under his tyrannical rule." He sighs and touches his lips with his fingers, "I watched Prince Rhaegar for the entirety of your wedding feast and I saw him pulling the Blackfish to the side, talking amiably. Despite being near Elia's age, Rhaegar has no wife or betrothal. It's strange for someone who shall inherit the Seven Kingdoms one day, but I suspect it's because Aerys still hopes to conceive a daughter and bride for his son with his wife. But Rhaegar can't wait to sire legitimate children and what would a sister-wife give him? No allies, no dowry, no army." Ned stares at his father as he talks, hand still on his long gray beard, and wonders for how long he has been thinking this. Far longer than his own marriage, he's sure, "Catelyn Tully is unmarried and the Blackfish's eldest niece." Rickard Stark turns to his second son, "Hoster writes to me of betrothing his younger girl to Jaime Lannister, or a Redwyne. Jon Arryn married his nephew to a Royce of Runestone, yes, but Elbert silently promised a future daughter of his to Robert Baratheon." Father looks out the window, standing near the sill, and closes his eyes, sighing, "It's all coming together, Eddard. Years of planning… secret ravens… finally coming into play."

Ned's heart is beating so hard on his chest that he can barely think and his mouth has run dry. He stares at his father, his quiet father, who never says anything, who told him seriously that he'd go to the Vale and be raised by Lord Arryn, alongside Robert Baratheon, the heir to the Stormlands.

"Father?" Ned says, tentatively.

Rickard Stark turns to his son and he looks every inch a stranger. 

"Brandon never knew," he says, "I didn't trust him with that, not yet." He tilts his head, slightly, "For ten thousand years, the heads of House Stark have married into the North, into good _First Men_ families, and, as quick as a breath, I promised my sons and daughter to three southron houses, sent you to the Vale to be fostered and why is that?"

 _Your father has southron ambitions,_ a female voice says in his ears and Ned thinks of his mother, his beautiful mother who didn't cry when he left for the Eyrie, who smiled when Lyanna was promised to Robert Baratheon, despite her own misgivings about the Andals. _He thinks we have hidden in the North for too long._

Yes, Ned says to himself. Father has southron ambitions, he's always known that, but it wasn't _him_ who told his son.

"Father never lies," Lyanna used to say, before her betrothal to Robert, "He tells a half-truth before he resorts himself to trickery."

It was never _father_ who told him about his ambitions. He only let them believe it, lest risk his own children ruining his plans.

"For how long have you been planning the fall of the Targaryens?" Ned asks and his voice cracks the silence like glass. He can hear his own pain, his own anger at being left out, and his heart shatters.

Rickard shakes his head. "I wasn't planning anything, Eddard. I wanted to be prepared and, after seeing what happened at Duskendale, I understand it was sorely needed."

"For how long?" he repeats the question and father frowns.

"Too long," he murmurs, "Some say that for each child the Queen lost, the King dove deeper and deeper into insanity. The realm rejoiced at hearing the birth of Prince Jaehaerys, the first royal child to survive more than half a year, three years ago. And the whole realm wept when Jaehaerys died at the end of the twelfth month after nearly an entire life of health and smiles. Do you know what King Aerys did?”

“No,” Ned answers.

“Instead of slinking away to grieve, he had the Prince’s wetnurse beheaded, for he thought she must have smeared poison on her nipples. A sennight later, he became convinced that it wasn’t the wetnurse, but his own mistress to kill his son and tortured her and her entire family seeking answers.” Rickard shakes his head, “Is this the work of a King, I wondered? If my wife gave me nothing but dead babes, would I do the same?” 

Ned says nothing. He thinks about Elia in bed, and the child slumbering inside. She had told him over and over again that there weren’t many children in their future, as the maesters in her childhood often told her, but did it matter? He married her for herself, not for her ability to bear children. Her mother lost two of her fifth born-alive children, but Viktor Manwoody never seemed to hold that against her, as King Aerys often did, accusing his wife of infidelity. If the same happened to Elia and him, although he prays to the gods that it wouldn’t, he doesn’t think he’d follow His Grace’s example.

“The North can gather the strength of forty thousand men, as can the Vale and the Stormlands. The Riverlands, perhaps fifteen thousand?" Rickard continues and touches his beard, "I must I admit that I never even _thought_ about Dorne, although I suppose Loreza Martell would do anything to see her daughter married to the man she loves." He looks at Ned as if saying _well done,_ and Ned wishes to say it wasn't his planning, that he didn't intend to marry a Princess of Dorne, but love just came to them. However, he stays quiet, "Even with all those alliances, the crown would still have more men. I have to assume that the Reach, the Westerlands and Iron Islands, alongside the Crownlands would join Aerys' cause."

Ned nods, “At best, we’d have a hundred and eighty-five thousand men, while King Aerys would have a hundred and ninety. At worst…” he shakes his head, “The odds are not good.”

“No,” Lord Rickard says, “They aren’t.” He sits down at his chair and Ned does the same, holding the armrests tightly.

“What should we do, father?” he asks and his voice is soft, but also curious. Childlike.

“We should…” he pauses for half a second, “We should find more allies.”

* * *

_My dearest,_

_Oh, how happy we are to hear of your news! A child, my grandchild! Oh, I’m so happy, so pleased. You do your House proud, Elia. You do me proud. Oberyn and Doran are so happy, as are the children. I have explained to Arianne and Tyene, as best as I could of course, that they were getting a new cousin and they were so confused! I laughed so much at their questions because poor dear Tyene thought she was getting another sister and Arianne didn’t understand why the babe would have to live so very far._

_We are making all the necessary arrangements and I imagine we’ll arrive in Winterfell a month or two before you give birth. I will be with you, of course, and Mellario thinks she can be of assistance during the delivery. Does the wait upset you, my dear? If it does, I will send Oberyn on our fastest sand steed to be with you while we travel._

_When I was carrying you, I craved strawberries and fish. Do you feel the same? And drink egg cream with wine, to settle your sickness. Ask any woman who has conceived in Winterfell and they shall agree with me._

_Lovingly,_

_Your mother._

* * *

_Dear Elia,_

_Court rejoices in your news. I was quite shocked to hear of this new child, though I suppose, what could I expect when you two are young and with lots of free time?_

_Mellario sends her wishes. She still struggles with the written language, so I decided to transcribe her words. She claims that a warm bath every day helps with swelling, but Maester Caleotte has yet to find any proof of it. I don't think he likes her very much. She is preparing Norvoshi gifts for your little one, those her own family sent for Arianne, and as well as dornish ones. She is carefully selecting each one._

_We will be with you when you give birth, of course. Cousin Manfrey shall be our castellan for when we leave, to rule our princedom._

_Love,_

_Your brother, Doran._

* * *

_Elia,_

_I am coming._

_Oberyn._

* * *

She dreams of cold, a dream so real that she can state the snow in her mouth and feel her hairs stand in an attempt to retain warmth. Elia is wearing a thin sleeveless white dress as she steps into the godswood and her feet are bare, burnt black by the cold. Her breath comes out in white puffs and her wet hair freezes around her head, like an ice crown.

She continues walking, knee-deep into the snow, pulled by an invisible force until she steps over the pool of black water, frozen solid by the cold, and she realizes, with a sense of detachment, that her feet are bleeding. The blood is sticky and unnatural, too dark to be normal and yet she can’t find it in herself to care. Elia bends over and touches her fingers to the liquid, bringing them to the nose, and finds it to smell of dornish wine and honey. There is no injury to the soles of her feet and yet they continue bleeding, forming dark pools around her and staining her dress.

Her eyes turn to the heart tree. Maester Caleotte said that heart trees are sacred to the Northmen, but Ned said that his gods watch through the tree and that is why every weirwood must have a face. For the gods to see better. He said that some men believe the weirwoods to be deities and there are legends in the North about men blessed by the old gods who can see through their eyes. If the former is true, then why are the gods crying?

Elia crosses the frozen pool in quick steps and touches the eyes of the tree. The sap running down is warm, almost burning, and more like blood than what leaks out of her feet. She touches the bark, white as a bone, and thinks so loudly that the words leave her lips, “Why are you crying? Is it because I’m here?” _Because I’m southern?_

Her house was founded by an Andal adventurer, and then by Nymeria of the Rhoynar. None of them worshipped the old gods, but there must have been someone of First Men blood to enter her line, at least in ancient history. Her father’s house, the Manwoodys, were Andals as well, but one of her grandmothers, mother’s mother, was a Dayne, who are amongst the most ancient Westerosi house and claim First Men ancestry.

She feels foolish by thinking this. The old gods must know it already, they are gods and they know everything. Ned said that a man can’t lie in front of a heart tree, but what about a woman?

“I carry a wolf inside me,” she whispers, leaning her forehead into the tree, right underneath its cruel smile and the sap slides down her hair, forming two long lines down her face. She knows that were she to look at herself in the looking glass, she’d find herself to be weeping the liquor as well. A thick liquid infiltrates her mouth and Elia can taste its bittersweet flavor, almost coppery and full of iron as if made by melted-down metals. Blood, but watered down. "My child shall follow your teachings, as will any other child that comes later. I swear it."

Elia means to touch her belly, feel the shy curve of her babe within, although when she does, her fingers find nothing but a flat stomach. The sap accumulates in her mouth and throat, blocking the airway and choking her. She opens her eyes, desperate, at the same moment that a hot drop of blood hits her cheek and, when Elia looks up, she sees her husband, perched in the white branches as if he’s a child being cuddled against his mother’s breast, mouth hanging open with bloodshot eyes. There’s a bloody _thing_ sleeping on his chest and Elia can hear the soft cries of a babe coming out of an open hole in its face. 

A black wyrm is pecking at Ned’s eyes, tearing away bloody chunks and the sight of it is enough for Elia to scream so loudly that her throat burns and she wakes up.

The first thing that she notes in the waking world is how hot she is. The blankets are bundled around her and the nightgown is made out of wool, perfect to retain warmth in her body. Ned once explained to her how the hot springs run inside Winterfell’s walls, warming everything and everyone and her rooms, the Lady’s rooms, are the warmest of them all. Certainly, he intended it to be a treat, to remind her of her girlhood days in Sunspear, of blood oranges and Oberyn’s sharp smiles, but now she can’t help thinking about her dream and the bloody heart tree.

Ned sits up and his hair is tousled from sleep, eyes still close and he touches her warms with cold Stark hands. Elia looks at him as if she’s seeing a dead man walking, half-expecting to see his cheek disappear as it did in her dream, eaten away by a damned lizard. Instead, he opens his eyes, face illuminated by the moonlight coming from the spaces between the tapestries at her window and he is well. She touches her belly and finds it still round, the babe growing within well.

“Are you alright?” he asks and his voice is clear, although full of worry, “Is something wrong with the babe?”

The words come to her tongue, almost slipping past her teeth, and Elia nearly says, but, before she can even think of how to explain her dream, she is afflicted by a childish urge to bury herself in his embrace and that’s what she does, turning her cheek to his chest and hearing his heartbeat against her ear. Ned wraps his strong arms around her small body and presses a kiss against her head.

"What is wrong?" he asks, "Did you have a bad dream?"

Elia nods and lets him go to look at his face, regretfully. Her husband is eight and ten, barely a man, but full of worrying wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His beard is full and rough, the same shade of brown as his hair. He has dark gray eyes that reflect his every mood, turning soft as fogs when he looks at her, and a thin pink mouth.

She scoots closer to him and takes his face between her hands, leveling their heads.

"A terrible one," she murmurs, "I dreamt that I was in the godswood, kneeling against the heart tree and that I choked on the sap that filled my mouth. I dreamt that I found you and our babe perched on the barks, nothing more than bloody remains of what you were and what our child could have been.”

“Oh,” Ned murmurs, touching her cheek and stroking her skin, his thumb brushing against the bone, “As you can see, I am fine.” He presses his free hand against her belly. It’s too soon to feel the movements yet, but that’d be enough for him to see how his child still grew in her entrains, “And the babe is as well.”

Elia shakes her head and tears burn in her eyelids, threatening to spill out, “I know, I know, but… What if it’s a sign?”

Ned frowns, "A sign?"

“Yes,” she says, “You are planning a civil war. You plan to take out the chosen King from his rightful throne. The gods can’t be happy about that and they curse me with terrible nightmares. So I can know their displeasure.”

Ned doesn’t answer. He bites his lower lip and his hands run colder, almost clammy. His gray eyes bore deep into her and she knows that he is thinking. Elia doesn’t say anything, knowing that he’ll speak whatever is on his mind soon enough.

“Elia,” he starts and he is hesitant, she can notice it, “The King is a madman. His court is one made on blood and, you said it yourself, he’s cruel to his Queen. Sometimes, Kings deserve to die.”

“You’ve overstepped,” Elia murmurs and she regrets her words as soon as they leave her lips. _Respect your husband, Elia,_ Septa Alessa whispers in her ears, _obey him._ But Ned doesn’t say anything, it’s as if he’s never even thought about punishing her for her words and so, bolded by his permission, she continues speaking, “We are not gods. We don’t choose who lives or dies.”

Ned opens his mouth and then closes, frowning slightly as he thinks.

“We do, actually,” he says at last, “My father is the bearer of justice in the North. If he decides the crime of a man to be too offensive, he may take his life.”

Elia doesn’t say anything. He’s right and she knows it. Many a time, she has been brought to her mother’s side during a trial, seating by the Princess as she heard tales of murders and rapes told over and over again, being presented with a living man, some as wild as wolves and others desperate for survival, proclaiming their innocence or penitence. Doran would be there, as well as her father, but never Oberyn. Mother wouldn’t want her precious babe to see blood, even if he was third in line to inherit Sunspear. If only she knew then, that Oberyn would be the deadliest sibling of the three.

Her mother’s executioner was called Arron Wyl, a mean and tall man with sharp blue eyes. _He treated me nice though_ , she thinks, remembering how he'd kiss her hand and take the blood oranges on the tallest branches when she was still too young to climb. _He called me Little Princess_ _and I could almost forget what his duty was._

Elia closes her eyes and leans her forehead into Ned's. She doesn't want to think about it, doesn't even know what drove her to say those words. She wants to be kissed and held, to be comforted and told that everything will be alright. She wants to be younger, for just a second.

Instead, Ned kisses her cheek and then her lips, where her tears mix his with his saliva. When they part, he slides his hand from her cheek to her own hand, taking hold of her fingers.

“Come,” he says, standing up and she is suddenly aware of how little he wears to sleep. A pair of simple breeches, and nothing to cover his chest. Elia herself has only a nightgown on.

“Come where?” she asks and Ned smiles, but it’s different than his normal smiles. It reminds her of her brother, Oberyn, sharp and mean, though with a hint of love underneath. 

“I want to show you that you have nothing to fear from the godswood,” he says and pulls her up with a flick of his wrist.

Somehow, he manages to get them out of their shared room in quick steps, although Elia manages to convince him to put on a robe and a pair of night shoes, and out of the castle before anyone notices that they are gone. She is tightening her own robe around her body as he pulls her across stairs, past rooms, and sleeping guards. There are still many hours left in the night before anyone would awake to start the day and Elia knows her fears are baseless, but she can’t help thinking that soon. Ned’s father will appear in a corridor and send them back to bed as if they were two sneaky children.

She suddenly remembers the first time they met when his father threw a feast in her mother’s honor and Ned danced with her for what felt like a hundred years. After the dancing was over, he took her by the hand and led her to the godswood, as he is doing now.

They step outside and the cold envelops around Elia like a strangling hand. Ned doesn't seem to mind, continuing to walk as if nothing happened, and pulls her along the courtyard until they reach the forest inside a castle, where the tall white branches of the weirwood reach up for the sky.

A raven came from the citadel soon after her pregnancy was discovered, announcing the arrival of autumn, and yet the ground has yet to freeze or the leaves to fall from the trees. This shall be the first winter she has in Winterfell, the first of many.

The godswood smells of earth and decay, with a telling hint of age in it, and she crosses the path quietly, her feet catching on the hummus and packed dirt. The weirwood stands before a black pool and its weeping face is reflected on the waters. It's so hot inside that she takes her robe out, staying only with her nightgown and slippers.

Ned leads her to the tree and touches the trunk with his hand. "See," he says, sitting and she sits as well, "Nothing to fear." 

Elia doesn't say anything. She touches the tree as well, and then the sap. It's sticky and when she brings to her nose, it smells like sugar and water. Boldly, Elia licks it and finds that it tastes the same as it smells. In her dream, the liquor tasted like blood and choked her, as if she wasn't worthy of being near it. She half expects the branches to grow and take her away.

"The Kings of Winter of old used to drink the sap when they ascended the throne," Ned murmurs, "If they choked or spat it out, they were considered a failure. It meant the gods rejected the monarch and a new one had to be found, usually a younger brother or a son." He shrugs, "When Aegon the Conqueror landed, the practice had been abandoned for centuries."

Elia nods. She didn't know that. When she turns to Ned to say as much, she finds that he is standing up, back turned to the door. He has removed his robe, now laying amongst the tree roots, gray on white, and is unlacing his breeches.

"What are you doing?" she asks, almost shouting.

Ned ignores her, sliding his pants down his legs. He removes his smallclothes as well, standing naked in the godswood and before Elia can say anything, he jumps into the black hot pool.

The splash rings out like a scream in the quiet godswood and Ned emerges half a second later, spitting out water, his hair and beard wet. He looks like a drowned dog, but his smile is wide and his eyes are sparkling.

"Why did you do that?" Elia asks.

Ned doesn't stop grinning. His smile is so intoxicating that she can't help, but smile as well. Soon enough, she is giggling quietly. 

"Such a lovely night," he says, "Thought I'd have a swim." He raises a hand to her, "Come. Join me."

Elia laughs, "No, I don't think so."

Ned makes a face, pouting, and she's laughing so loud that anxiety creeps into her belly, whispering of bears and wolves in the godswood. She ignores the fear, though.

"At least help me out," he says, hand still stretched in front of him.

Elia stands up, gathering her skirt in one first, and takes his hand with the other. She's about to start pulling him out when Ned makes a sudden movement with his back and she is pulled into the water, still clothed.

She holds her breath on instinct and opens her eyes. The water is so dark that she can barely see Ned's body in front of her, but it's clear, without mud or debris. The pool is much deeper than she thought originally, her toes barely scraping the bottom and Elia plants her hands on Ned's shoulders for support. The water is warm, fed by a hot spring that runs underneath Winterfell, and she is reminded of days spent in the Water Gardens, playing with Oberyn underneath her mother's watchful gaze. Doran would visit too, she remembers, but never play with them. He was too old for it.

In Dorne, however, they'd visit the pools to ward off the heat while in the North, it's to repel the cold.

She rises for air, kicking her legs, and Ned is laughing. He's _laughing._

"You did that on purpose!" she exclaims and he laughs louder.

"You can't prove it," he proclaims. Their faces are so close that she could kiss him, just by tilting her chin up a little, and Ned might have been thinking the same thing because he leans down and presses his mouth against hers.

It's wet. His lips are soft against her and he licks hotly inside her mouth, hands planted in the curve of her bottom. Elia sighs and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Ned groans against her lips and slides his hands up and down her thighs. Her dress is floating around them, like wings opened to the sky and her wet hair sticks to her back.

"Elia," Ned whispers, traveling from her mouth to her neck. He bites her skin, sucking hard enough that she knows it will leave a mark, and when his fingers attempt to remove her smallclothes, Elia sighs.

"We can't… This is the godswood…" She holds his head as he kisses her pulsing point, "Let us return to our room, so we can continue."

Ned shakes his head. He leaves the pool with her still in his arms and lays her down over the robe, stretched near the roots like a soft blanket. He cradles her head with his hand as he climbs atop her, hips touching. Her dress clings to her body and curves, leaving nothing to the imagination, and Ned's eyes are dark. Elia blushes but doesn't look away.

Despite the freezing weather, the ground is hot, almost boiling, and heat seeps into her skin through the two layers of fabric, driving away the cold.

"I don't think that's necessary, my love," he says, pressing a kiss in the corner of her mouth, "The gods don't care. They like it, even. They want to know that I'm doing my duty to my lady wife." He tilts his head slightly, looking like a confused puppy, "Do you want me to stop?"

Elia doesn't say anything. She is too shocked for it. She could barely imagine having… _coupling_ in a sept, but if Ned says it's fine, then it must be.

"No," she says, hooking an arm on his neck and pulling him close, "Never."

Ned grins and slides her smallclothes down her legs, discarding next to his own clothes, and starts kissing her body. He presses his lips against her neck, chest, and breast, unlacing the top of her body just enough to allow her nipples to slip through. He takes a brown breast in his hand while kissing and licking the other and Elia sighs, burying her hands in his soft hair.

When he is satisfied with the perked up state of them, he slides down even further, kissing her belly and navel, where his child grows. Half a breath later, Ned slides his hands under her calves and opens her legs gently, settling between them.

Elia thinks he means to slide back up, to kiss and hold her until she is ready to accept his member but, instead, Ned continues going down, pushing her skirt up and up until her entire bottom is unbarred. She is about to ask what he plans on doing when she feels his hot breath against her most intimate place, a finger gently touching her.

His lips come a second later and Elia closes her eyes, the sight of the stars too much to bear. She had heard of _this_ before, as Oberyn is more than fond of explaining exactly how Lord Yronwood found him and his paramour together in bed, but never imagined that a man as far north as Winterfell would be willing to do it.

He kisses her nub and licks her until she is wet and pliable underneath him. Elia covers her mouth with a hand as he inserts a finger inside, down to his knuckle. She's more sore than normal, but it doesn't hurt. He's so gentle and it's so _good_ that she barely remembers her own name, let alone the ability to feel pain. He kisses her thighs and inserts a second finger, curling them inside her.

She can see stars even from behind closed eyelids, twinkling in her darkened mind, and Ned sucks her nub, licking hotly into her entrance. 

Her body tightens quicker, muscles straining and Elia peaks with a long moan, hand still on her mouth. Ned kisses her thigh as her entire body relaxes, whispering sweet nothings against the soft skin there. It takes a moment before he climbs back up and presses his lips to her cheek. His beard is wet, maybe from herself or from the swim, and he is smiling, a hand still buried between her legs.

"I'm too sensitive," she murmurs, half-heartedly. His fingers aren't doing anything, just staying there, but just the proximity is enough to make her stomach tighten.

"It's for warmth," he answers, cheeky, and kisses her.

Elia can taste herself on his tongue. Tangy, but sweet, somehow. She doesn't think she has ever tasted something like it before in her life. Elia scoots down the robe, just enough so that his groin touches hers, and her husband groans. He's hard, painfully so.

"Ned," she whispers and her words hang in the air as if frozen by the cold, "Ned, please."

"Hold on," he murmurs, taking his lips across her face, "Have patience, my dear."

She can hear the drag of skin on skin, and he sighs as he takes hold of his member, aligning it with her entrance. Elia holds her breath as he slowly enters her, burying his face in the curve of her neck. She wraps her arms around his shoulder and legs around his waist, holding tight as he starts to thrust.

Ned is a quiet lover, but no less experienced than her. He holds her hips with so much force that she is sure it will leave a mark, red blooming underneath her skin. He bites her pulsing point, sticking his teeth in, and she can’t help but think about the sigil of his house, a gray direwolf running on a white field. In Dorne, after her betrothal was announced, there were some rumors going around about the Starks, how they could change into wolves with just a thought, calling it the wolf blood in them.

“Elia,” he whispers and she doesn’t think her name has ever sounded so sweeter than when it does when it leaves his lips, “Elia. Elia. Elia.”

“Ned,” she whispers it back, dragging her nails down his back as if saying, _I’m here, I love you, I will never leave you._

He lets go of her neck, raising his head just enough to look at her face, and Elia can see how his eyes are darkened, the gray is overtaken almost completely by the black. She noses his own nose and he sighs, leaning their foreheads together.

“Oh,” she moans as he hits deeper and deeper, angling her legs and hips with his strong hand, “Oh, _Ned_ …”

He plants open-mouthed kisses against her face, slobbering all over her, and soon enough she is laughing, a breathless giggle that is between a moan and a true laugh. There is a smile on Ned’s face as he thrusts into her, but he’s frowning as if trying to focus on the task at hand.

His movements become erratic, out of order, faster, and she knows he is close. Elia brings her hands up, to his face, and touches his sweaty cheeks, turning his eyes to her. He seems to be almost in pain, though she knows this to be untrue, and is biting his lower lip so hard that droplets of blood spill down his pale chin.

He peaks with a quiet groan, his smile widening and eyes closed. A new heat fills her and she sighs, caressing his hair and moving out of his eyesight. Ned kisses her palm and then down her arm until his lips reach her shoulder. He’s not saying anything, but he doesn’t have to. There are no more words left to say between them.

Ned removes himself from her and drops to her side, most of his body laying on the cold packed dirt. He noses her cheek lovingly, the urgency of his lovemaking still aching in her loins, and she has never felt more loved in her entire life. Elia is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and she feels as if the entire world has stopped around them, even the night birds have ceased to sing. Her nightgown is dry, but her hair still clings to her body, and she isn't sure if it's because of the pool or the sweat.

"Are you still afraid of the godswood?" Ned asks, cupping one of her breasts.

She smiles, "No, of course not."

* * *

Robert Baratheon is a tall and large man, taller than Lord Stark and much bigger than the Umbers who came for Elia’s wedding, with clear blue eyes and a head full of black curly hair. He’s clean-shaven and extremely handsome. He has a hard and square jawline, with a long strong nose. He’s strong and powerful, like a maiden’s fantasy. Elia thinks she might have been married to him if she never met Ned and fell in love with him, if he weren’t already promised to Lyanna Stark, and if the rumors about his debauchery hadn’t reached her ears. The Stormlands have borders with Dorne, and her mother might have considered this match to maintain the peace between their lands, if only she and Lady Lannister hadn’t already made plans about joining their houses. _Too many ifs_ , Elia thinks. She barely knows Robert Baratheon, they never truly talked to one another, despite her being married to his closest friend, and can’t imagine living a life by his side, a life that, by law, belongs to Lyanna, as his betrothed.

She looks at her goodsister as the procession of Ser Robert enters Winterfell’s courtyard. Lyanna is not smiling or even seems to be happy by the arrival of her future husband. She is not frowning, exactly, but there is a pout to her lips that wasn’t there that morning, a wrinkle between her brows and her hands are clutched into fists by her side. Benjen whispers something in her ear and her frows deepens.

He’s coming to visit her. There was an excuse, of course, something about northern criminals being found looting around the marches, but there was no need for the heir to Storm’s End to deliver them personally. It’s for Lyanna. Everything that Robert Baratheon does is for Lyanna.

“My lord,” he says, greeting her goodfather, and Rickard Stark smiles, almost imperceptibly. He turns to Ned and engulfs his friend in a hug, laughing boisterously. Elia always thought her husband to be this tall and strong lord, but next to the young Baratheon, he seems as small as herself, “Gods, too long, Ned, too long…” He lets go of her husband and takes his long face between his strong hands, “Where have you been? Why haven’t I seen you?”

“Right here,” Ned says, laughing too, “I have a family to look after now.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard,” Robert murmurs, arching an eyebrow and looks at her. She is over six moons along and her pregnancy is noticeable under her skirts, as the dresses she has made are meant to show, not conceal her state. 

Ned steps near Robert and whispers in his ears, "Do you have it?"

"Yes," Robert answers and Elia perks up, "You worry too much."

"Have what?" She asks and the two look at her from the corners of their eyes. They are planning something, she realizes. Have been planning it for months.

Robert is the first to speak, “Lady Stark,” he says, kissing her hand. “It’s good to hear you are taking care of my little brother.” Benjen bristles at that but doesn’t say anything. Elia thinks of what Brandon would’ve said to this, had he been there to hear it. Eddard mentioned once how he was jealous of his close friendship with the young Storm Lord.

“I’m half a year older than you, Robert,” Ned murmurs.

“Does it matter?” Robert asks and turns away from Elia to her goodsiblings. Benjen is wearing his finest green doublet and Lyanna has a red dress on, something that Elia herself would have worn before discovering her pregnancy, with her hair styled up on a tight braid around her head. It was only after much insistence from her father that Lyanna agreed to look nice to greet her betrothed. If it were up to her, she’d be wearing breeches and her riding boots.

“If Robert truly loves me,” Elia remembers her saying, “He wouldn’t care about what I’m wearing.”

“My lady,” Robert says, kissing the hand that Lyanna begrudgingly offers. He has a smile on, “You look well.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna says and a shy smile comes to her face, “You do too.”

Rickard must have promised something to her, to make her behave and smile. Elia can’t think about what it is. Perhaps a longer ride, or a reprieve from her lessons with Maester Walys. Maybe a new horse. Lyanna is outgrowing her mare. Yes, a new horse seems more likely.

“Please,” Lyanna murmurs and her voice is sickeningly sweet, “Let me show you to your rooms, my lord.”

“Lead the way, Lady Lyanna,” he answers.

Robert extends his hand and Lyanna carefully places her own over it. Her fingers seem childlike when compared to his, and weak, but she doesn’t say anything as she walks out of the courtyard, Benjen following them as a chaperone. Soon enough, it’s only Ned and Elia out in the open, the servants running to shelter, and her husband turns to her, extending his own hand.

Elia smiles and takes his arm, allowing herself to be lead inside the castle. They take the direction that will lead them to her rooms. It’s early and Elia had barely broken her fast when a servant came to warn them of Robert's arrival. His procession wasn’t expected until the next day, but he must have raced to see his beloved betrothed.

“Robert seems happy,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” Ned answers and his thoughts seem far away, “He does.”

Elia thinks about what she knows of Robert. His father is Rhaelle Targaryen’s son, first cousin to King Aerys, and he was practically raised at court, especially now that the tensions between King and Hand are spilling over the realm. Ned thinks they can trust him to join Rhaegar’s side, but Elia is unsure. When it comes to the brewing war, she is always unsure.

“Is Lord Steffon still in Volantis?” she asks as a servant girl scurries past them, carrying a pile of sheets.

King Aerys had given up on producing a daughter for his son to wed and, even if he did, the poor girl would be too young to produce children for many years. So, he sent his cousin and his wife to Volantis, to search for a bride for Prince Rhaegar, a noble girl of Old Valyrian blood. Elia could only imagine how much Rhaegar prayed for the Storm Lord to fail in his task, as a Volantene girl could ruin his plans of deposing his father. Elia herself prayed for a pretty girl, close in age to the Prince, with silver hair and wide purple eyes to stop the talk of war.

“I think so,” Ned answers, “Maybe. Robert never wrote to me about his return, only that his father was thinking of it. Lady Baratheon didn’t like Volantis and Robert’s father loves his wife very much.”

Elia smiles. She didn’t know that, but perhaps it’s what drove Robert to ask for the hand of Lyanna, a girl he loved long before there was a possibility of marriage.

They arrive at her chambers, the heavy wooden doors closed.

“I understand,” she murmurs and then turns to her husband. Ned stops and stares at her. He doesn’t show any signs of annoyance, or even curiosity. He justs stops and waits for her to speak, “Do you think we would see the world, someday? Or even travel through the Free Cities.”

“I don’t know,” he says, “Would you like to?”

Elia shrugs. She never thought much of it. Her brothers had. Oberyn killed Lord Yronwood and her mother sent him to Oldtown, and then to Lys in an informal exile, while Doran toured around the Free Cities, before stopping in Norvos and meeting his wife, Lady Mellario. Elia herself had never left Dorne before traveling with her mother to find a husband in Westeros. Princess Loreza never allowed it, for fear of straining her health and Elia was content enough to obey her mother. Now, though, she doesn’t know.

“Maybe,” she says, “I’d like to have the option, in case I become bored of this place.” Her tone is teasing and Ned smiles, taking her small waist in hands. 

“Bored, eh?” Ned says, “Am I keeping you bored, Princess?”

“Of course not, my love,” she says, smiling, “But I’m only saying… I like to have options.”

“I’ll show you options,” Ned says and pulls her into her room.

Later, when they are done and Elia has finally fixed her hair, a knock comes to their door. It's heavy and demanding, all at once, but also a show of politeness. Who's on the other side might respect them, or maybe fear what they could find if they were to open the door without a summon from inside.

Ned stands to open and she tries to think who could it be. Perhaps Lyanna, coming to complain about Robert. She had started doing so after her own wedding date was announced and certainly found a friendly ear in Elia, as she tried to be good to her husband's sister and be close with the young girl.

"How do you fall in love with someone?" the girl asked, not two days before.

Elia remembers sighing and letting go of her embroidery, setting the needle and thread on her lap.

"You can't do it unconsciously," she answered, as honest as she could "It's not a candle. It can't be set aflame with a movement of your hand. It's… different."

Lyanna leaned on her seat, grabbing Elia's hands with her own. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. She was desperate.

"Tell me," she begged, tears coming to her blue-gray eyes.

Elia smiled, tightly, and tried to remember when she had fallen in love with Ned. She couldn’t. She just realized one day, after he rode away from Sunspear with a letter of her mother Lord Arryn, that she never wanted him to leave her side at all, but the actual moment was something her memory couldn’t recall.

“It’s lightning setting a forest on fire,” Elia said, “It’s the waves destroying a ship. It’s destruction and it’s salvation. But the truth is: you can’t control love, Lyanna.”

Shiny fat tears rolled down Lyanna’s cheeks and she sobbed. “My mother used to say that love is on the eyes.” She licked her lips and her voice was full of sadness, “My brother looks at you as if you were a goddess come to life… and you look at him as if he’s the savior of the entire world.” Lyanna turned away from Elia, unable to hold her stare, “I’m afraid that I will never be able to look at Robert the same way he looks at me.”

She said that with so much sadness and Elia understood why. She’d soon go to Storm’s End to bear children for Robert and, if love was not found in the relationship, her husband could go find it in the nearest brothel available, but she would have to stay at the castle, shut away from men, condemned to a life of misery.

“In our world,” Elia said, “Love is not a must in marriages. Perhaps for the common folk, but not for us. My union with your brother is a rarity, but I know many men and women that say that something else arises in marriage. Spending years with someone else, living in their house and having children with them will start something in your heart.”

‘Love?” Lyanna asked and her face twisted, “Hate?”

“Friendship,” Elia answered and her goodsister’s features softened, “If you don’t come to love your husband, that is fine. But you will have his children and well, it would be hard to raise children with someone you hate. Fighting constantly would not do well for their growing minds, neither will you simply ignoring Robert.” Elia tried to smile and not put her hand on her growing belly. Her own happiness with her husband wouldn’t help Lyanna, “A family is a common ground and you are a Stark of Winterfell. I know how important family is to you.”

“Family is the most important thing to me,” Lyanna said and then took a deep breath. Her shoulders loosened instantly and she seemed more relaxed, “When Robert arrives, I will try to become his friend.”

It's not Lyanna at the door, though. It's Robert himself.

"Hello," Ned says and steps away as to let his friend in. Elia is seating by the window, with a large fabric in her lap, needle in hand. It's a tapestry, meant for the nursery of her unborn child. Elia started it as soon as she found out about her condition, but is nowhere near being done, six months later. She'd only be finished once all her children were born.

It's a pack of wolves, now including only two animals, representing Ned and her growing babe, howling to a large orange sun. She had undone her maiden cloak for the fabric while keeping the rubies for necklaces for her daughters to wear during their weddings. That is, if the gods would be good to bless them with girls.

“Lady Elia,” Robert says, inclining his head to her, and Elia nods at him. He never called her princess after her wedding in the fleeting conversations they had and she suspected it was due to his own love for Ned. After her marriage to Eddard Stark, Elia stopped being a Princess of Dorne and became Lady Stark. 

“Lord Robert,” she murmurs.

Robert sighs and sits in a chair near the hearth, leaning his head on his hand. He seemed tired and she tried to remember how many miles stood between Storm’s End and Winterfell. Despite all her attention to Maester Caleotte’s geography lessons, she couldn’t recall the exact number. But it has be a long distance and Robert must have ridden for months without end just to arrive there, to see Lyanna and hand a couple of prisoners to Lord Rickard’s care.

Elia stands up, placing her embroidery carefully on her seat, “May I offer you anything, my lord?” she asks.

“Some wine,” Robert answers and then adds as if remembering his manners, “Please.”

There is a flagon of dornish red near the hearth, left there for Elia, although she had yet to drink anything. She never had any love for wine and Old Nan, a worker of Winterfell with wrinkly hands and stained skin, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at the thought of her drinking. “A drunk mother will give birth to a drunk child, my lady,” she said, many moons ago when Elia’s pregnancy barely showed.

She pours a cup for Robert and then one for Ned, who sat on a chair across of his friend. While Robert downs his drink quickly, Ned prefers to stare at the man he calls brother.

“Something is wrong,” her husband states, “Tell me.”

Robert looks at Elia as if trying to decide how much she is allowed to know, and she returns to her embroidery, pretending to not listen as she strains her ears. Ned would tell her everything, she knows, but there is still some innate need inside her to know what is happening. Oberyn is smart, she knows and went to Oldtown to forge six links of his maester’s chains before growing bored, but if Elia had been a boy, she’d travel and stay there. She’d form an entire chain. Perhaps even grow to be Grand Maester and sit in the small council. But alas, the gods saw fit to make her a woman and be Lady of Winterfell.

She takes a black bead in a pile in front of her and loops a white thread inside her. It’s for the wolf’s eyes, they need to shine.

“My father is dead,” Robert says and Elia pricks her finger with the needle in shock. A droplet of blood forms and she sticks her finger in her mouth, sucking it off. Robert doesn’t pay her any attention.

Ned’s chin drops and he is too shocked to say anything. Elia watches her husband with the corner of her eye, resuming her work without even thinking.

“How?” he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Robert shakes his head, “I wanted to come here in person.” He drags a hand over his face and, suddenly, he seems years older, not the boy of nine and ten that knows him to be, “Windproud, my parent’s ship, sunk in Shipbreaker Bay during a storm. A stupid name, I should have it changed.”

“Your mother too?” Ned asks and his voice is impossibly soft.

Robert nods.

“I’m sorry, Robert. Truly and if there is anything I can do, tell me and it shall be done.”

“I appreciate it,” he says. Elia looks at him for half a breath, the young Lord of Storm’s End, and sees his back straining underneath the dark blue doublet. He’s tired because he is ruling his father’s lands, she notices it. Because he just realized that this will be his duty until he takes his last breath. Oberyn said something to her once, when discussing Doran and his unfaltering sense of honor and duty, how he’d neglect everything except his kingdom, despite only being the heir. _Heavy is the head that wears the crown,_ “And that is why I’m here. To wed Lyanna.”

“What?” Ned asks and surprise laces his voice, “Lyanna is only six and ten.”

“Old enough to be wed,” Robert answers, waving away with his hand as if it didn’t matter, “Storm’s End needs a lady. House Baratheon needs a lady, Ned. I have no sister, no cousins who can take the job. It’s time she comes home.”

Elia can see Ned bristles at this, at how he is ready to say that Winterfell is Lyanna’s home, has been for the entirety of her life, but he says nothing, perhaps noticing that this is not the time to go against Robert. Her husband sighs and puts two fingers over the bridge of his nose, frowning.

“Have you told my father about this?” he asks.

“Yes,” Robert murmurs, “And he agrees. The sept you had built for Elia would do well for the wedding.”

Ned nods and Elia sighs, cutting the white thread to continue working on the sun. She wanted to make it shine under the candlelight, so her children would know that no matter the darkness, the sun of Dorne would light the way for them.

“If my father gives his permission,” Ned says and she can hear the tightening on his voice, “Then I will gladly stand by your side.”

* * *

_To the Prince of Dragonstone,_

_The Lady Stark, the wife of the heir to Winterfell, Eddard Stark, gave birth on the night of the seventh day of the fifth moon to a healthy girl named Raena, to honor the ladyship’s foremother, Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, and the current Queen. Mother and child are well. His Grace is invited to come to meet the child or send her gifts._

_The father of the child also would like to thank His Grace for the kind words said by the Prince during his wedding and wants you to know that he will never forget them._

_Walys, maester in service to House Stark of Winterfell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i figured because house stark was so important then a new arrival would mean sending letters to all the high lords of westeros for an announcement. sorry if im wrong.
> 
> many scenes were cut due to the sheer size of this chapter. ashara was going to make an appearance, the birth scene would appear as well as a conversation between doran and oberyn, while there would be a plotpoint of angst between elia and ned, where ned would be quite the hero, but i decide to cut these out for pure laziness. sorry. i didnt want to cut this chapter into two again, so i decided to cut them out. we'll see if i can stick some scenes, or lines into other chapters!
> 
> little raena is actually rhaenys, from canon, and the whole naming sounds targaryen is actually intentional. i wanted ned and elia's first child to be a girl, but i didnt want it to be sansa, because i thought that sansa being the first born child would take away all that innocence and trust that she has. in my head, this new child formed, which i first called lyarra, after neds mother, and it took me some weeks to realize how, in canon, elia had a first born daughter and i could just change her to my own canon lol. hope you dont mind!
> 
> i wanted raena's name to be quite targaryen-y to mirror ned naming his firstborn son after robert during the rebellion.
> 
> sorry for the lack of oberyn, i know how much everyone loves him, but he will appear in the next chapter! i promise!
> 
> Update: please stop bothering me about the name. Its just a name. It sounded nice in my head. it's not an offense to Dorne or anywhere else. It's just a name. Look there was a character named Alysanne Karstark in the first chapter, why aren't we talking about that? I took the H out to sound less Targaryen. It's a show of loyalty by Ned's part.


	5. lady ryswell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lady Barbrey is a woman who knows how to nurse a grievance. Be grateful for that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so many things happened since last time we spoke. the pandemic hit. my president ended up being fucking useless. george rr martin returned to writing winds of winter.  
> the process of writing this chapter was quite intense for me. i really wanted to update sooner, but every time i sat down and tried to write, nothing came of it. it was very frustrating. i had dreams about the scenes that would happen, and what i wanted to do. i watched videos of the spanish princess that i somehow learned would inspire me.  
> and then i decided, fuck it, write a sex scene. its something, at least. and then i did. and the sex scene alone was 3k words. and then i received a comment that made me feel good about writing this story, and when I reached 6k words, I almost lost this file and gave up writing this chapter for the half an hour that took me to find the file on my computer and now i have this 12k monstrosity.  
> enjoy!

Doran Martell has a book open on his lap, reading it carefully. Every so often, his black brows arch slightly, the most subtle sign of surprise, and he parts his lips, changing the page to continue reading.

Oberyn watches his brother with a mix of frustration and awe. He wishes the man were not reading, but, instead, looking at him. He wants to talk with Doran, to discuss their future in a way he has never desired before.

It is early morning, and the dark gray sky outside struggles to gain light. Most of the castle is still asleep, with only a handful of servants and guards bustling around. Oberyn himself had just woken up, used to counting the hours in the dornish way. Sleep still tugs at his limbs, encouraged by the cold and damp air, begging him to return to his warm bed for another hour or two of heavenly slumber.

But he doesn’t allow himself to feel tired. Or to even let out a yawn. Doran is watching him, even if pretends to read. Or maybe he is reading _and_ watching him, doing both at the same time to catch his younger brother in a weak spot. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Oberyn wouldn’t find out the truth about it until much later, if ever. His brother is quite good at hiding his true intentions.

And Oberyn wants his brother’s approval. It’s the younger sibling aspect of him, struggling to gain respect from the man who’d become his liege lord one day. He never had to worry about this with Elia, whose close age allowed them to grow together without awkwardness and setbacks, but with Doran? Doran, ten years older, who he rarely saw as a child and, when he did, would always remain by his mother’s side, as her undoubted heir.

As a child, Oberyn wanted nothing more than a smile from Doran, or a pat in his head from him. Sometimes, he’d bring him toys, bought with his own coin and, although he would do the same to Elia, Oberyn couldn’t help but revel in those small signs of affection.

He had grown out of it, eventually. Or at least out of the most intense yearning for approval. Maybe at age six and ten, when Doran himself suggested to his mother that she send him on a temporary exile to Oldtown and Lys, after his duel with Lord Yronwood. When his brother said those words, not even looking at him, he felt shamed and cowed. Barely a man-grown, and yet a simple sentence made him yearn for the simpler days of early childhood.

He looks at his brother as he continues reading, changing the pages slowly. The book’s cover is made of black leather, with something written in gold. Mayhaps the title? Oberyn can’t say from this angle; he’d have to bend his back too much to be comfortable, and he has no desire to ask Doran about it either.

He looks around them. The stone walls of Winterfell surround them by all sides, high and gray. If it were Sunspear, there would be at least two open windows, allowing fresh air to enter in feeble attempts to ward off the heat, but the North is much different. The lonely window in that room was covered by a thick tapestry, bearing a scene from an old Stark victory against the Red Kings of Bolton.

Oberyn would be lying if he said he didn’t hate the North. Too cold for his tastes. Too brash, too strict. _Too honest._

A few serving girls would look at him, with wide eyes and open mouths that he’d love to kiss. Girls he could have in his bed if he wanted to and, although he wants to, he couldn’t help but think that Elia wouldn’t approve of him sleeping with the servants of her husband’s castle. Even if he never got a bastard on them.

And the men, who never had to worry about producing Sands so far away from Dorne, would hardly look at him. Some did, with shameful longing, while others only stared at the foreigner with mistrustful eyes, muttering _dornish_ under their breaths like a curse. Oberyn couldn’t find it in himself to care about it, although he often wondered if Elia suffered the same, and if she’d tell him in case he did.

Most likely not. His sister is a pacifist at heart. And more clever than him. She would have solved this by now, without any need for fighting, or protection from his part.

“I can hear your thoughts from here, brother,” Doran says, flicking a page on his book, “And smell the smoke.” _Of your brain trying to form them,_ goes unsaid, the tease a burning bite on Oberyn’s skin.

“Can you?” Oberyn replies, sarcasm dripping from his words like poison.

Doran smirks, still looking at his book, although his eyes don’t move like he is reading. Oberyn watches him, the words unable to leave his mouth, and waits for his brother to continue talking.

“We have a new niece,” Doran murmurs and he finally puts his book down, slowly raising his black eyes to his younger brother.

Oberyn nods, remembering his sister in the birthing chamber just a day prior. Elia had screamed and bled as she brought her child into the world, struggling in and out of conscience. It took hours before the babe was born, a healthy girl with her mother’s brown skin and her father’s small chin.

He had been there for it all, invading the chamber in the early hours of the day to be beside his sister. The midwives present had objected to his staying, but he only laughed and questioned which one of them planned on keeping him from the room.

He was almost disappointed to see Eddard already by Elia’s side, holding her hand and pressing a wet cloth to her sweaty forehead, even if it was what he should be doing anyway. Oberyn didn’t like to be outdone, even by his sister’s husband.

Although Elia entered the birthing bed soon before the hour of the wolf, his niece arrived at noon, a chubby little baby with reddish-brown skin and soft hair, dark as night. Raena, they called her, although Oberyn has yet to find out if the idea came from Eddard or from his sister. It hardly matters. He expected more from both, either way.

Raena Stark is beautiful, even at the mushed-up state most babies stay in during their first months of life. She is all his prayers answered. A child more Sunspear than Winterfell, and Oberyn loves her.

There was never any doubt in his heart that he would. Even if she carries a different name, Raena is part of his family. The younger Stark boy had proclaimed that she was part of the pack now, and Oberyn half-heartedly agreed. Raena didn’t _just_ belong to the wolf pack. She was half-dornish, brought forth from the womb of Elia Nymeros Martell. Her mother’s line came from Essos, at the shore of the Rhoyne. They had wrapped her in a white and gray cloak, bearing the Stark direwolf, and all but forgotten where she truly came from.

“Yes, we do.”

Doran smiles. His emotions reach his eyes, as the wrinkles in the corners became more pronounced.

“She looks like Arianne did at that age, doesn’t she?” Oberyn asks, unable to stop the joyful words from spilling.

Doran, however, shakes his head.

“She looks like _Elia,_ ” he murmurs, “I remember when I first saw our dear sister, so I can say for certainty: Raena is exactly like her mother was.”

Oberyn smiles. He knows Elia is still sleeping, as is her daughter, safe in her mother’s room. They are resting, gathering their strengths from such a strenuous labor. Maybe Eddard Stark is there too, arms wrapped around his wife’s thin waist as his lean chest rises and lowers with his breathing, although the simple thought of it threatens to burn Oberyn’s eyes from the inside.

He can’t help but think about his little niece’s future. If she had been a boy, he would be second-in-line to inherit Winterfell, with no one to take their place in the succession, but with a girl… Oberyn knew enough of history to know that no woman had ever ruled the North in her own right.

“If this were Dorne, she’d be heiress-apparent,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands.

“Yes,” Doran says, “But we are not in Dorne.”

“Will we fight in her name?” Oberyn asks, “If the time comes for her to inherit Winterfell, will we fight for her?”

Doran doesn’t say anything for a moment, pausing briefly, and he might as well have shrugged, with how little he seemed to care.

“Maybe,” he says, “If Elia doesn’t produce any surviving boys, we might fight for her rights against a son from a second marriage of Lord Eddard, but if a nephew of ours comes to be Warden of the North... Then I see no reason.” He looks at his books, open on his hands, and his eyes widen slightly, barely, like he forgot the tome was even there, “Or if Benjen Stark has any ideas.”

Oberyn frowns, “What do you mean?”

“Serena and Sansa Stark,” Doran answers, like it’s obvious. He stares at him, almost expecting Oberyn to nod in agreement and when he does not, his brother sighs loudly, the first sign of intense emotion Oberyn has seen all day, “Honestly, you should have paid more attention to your history lessons.”

“I don’t care about northern history,” Oberyn murmurs, “It’s not important.”

“I thought the same,” Doran says, shaking his head like he does whenever he sees Arianne misbehaving, “And then my sister married a member of House Stark and northern history suddenly became tied to dornish history.”

Oberyn feels his cheeks burn and his chest tightens, like he is a child that has just been reprimanded. He stares at his brother and waits for him to continue speaking, too embarrassed to do anything other than look.

“Serena and Sansa were their father’s heiresses,” he explains, “And he was the heir to Winterfell, who died fighting in Dorne during Young Daeron’s Wars. Their father’s half-brothers then forced the two girls to marry them, while claiming the lordship for themselves, disregarding their claims.”

“Benjen Stark is a child,” Oberyn replies, shaking his head, “He wouldn’t.”

“Maybe not now,” Doran says, “But he will soon be wed to a girl from House Ryswell, and I imagine they wouldn’t mind at all to help their goodkin become Warden of the North.” Doran looks at Oberyn, intensely. He leans in, like they are sharing a secret. His eyes are wholly black, dark, and mysterious, and Oberyn suddenly understands why he is heir to Sunspear. “Don’t you think it’s strange? I think I can count on one hand the number of times Winterfell was under a regency, and half will be for a ruler too old or sick to rule. Hardly ever, a child was crowned King of Winter and there has been no instance of a boy Lord of Winterfell.”

“What do you think this means?” Oberyn asks, leaning forward.

“It means the North follows strength, or what they perceive as strength,” he says, “They can’t imagine a woman ruling over them, and they will try their hardest to stop this.”

“And what should we do?” Oberyn questions. He closes his hand into a fist and wishes his mother hadn’t convinced him to leave his spear at home, “If Elia only has daughters, I will die before anyone takes their inheritance away.”

Doran smiles broadly and his teeth are white and sharp.

“If the northerners ever try to stop our niece from becoming Lady of Winterfell, we will try our hardest to stop _them,_ ” he says.

Oberyn smiles, pleased with his brother’s words.

He shakes his head and thinks about Raena and the toys that had been arriving since the beginning of the fortnight, gifts for her from houses sworn to Winterfell or those seeking to curry favor with the Starks. Even they had come with their own array of presents, from clothes made of the finest fabrics in Dorne to expensive dolls and silver rattles. Mellario, for example, spent months embroidering little dresses with suns and wolves intertwined, the fabric thicker than anything they had seen in Dorne, and Oberyn’s skin itched at the smile his brother had when he looked at his wife.

He had learned to differentiate the northern ones, though. It was not too difficult. The northerners sent dolls with gray dresses and iron crowns, as well as little direwolves made of fine stuffed cloth. More would come, he knows. From the south, maybe. For some reason, he can’t help but think that Prince Rhaegar himself would let the occasion go without notice.

He looks around him, to the room lent to his brother by the Lord of Winterfell. His bed was perfectly made, although few servants are awake, and Oberyn thinks his brother did it himself. Doran Martell can’t abide by disorganization.

“Where is Lyanna Stark?” he asks, confused. Although they had been in the North for only a moon’s turn, he had been focused too much on his sister and her child, and how labor could be dangerous for her fragile health, to notice the young lady with skinny legs and blue-gray eyes.

He thinks Elia might have mentioned it before. His memory is fogged, and he can’t remember her explaining _exactly_ where her goodsister was, but Lyanna’s name had been thrown around.

Doran doesn’t roll his eyes, but his disappointed expression is close to it.

“In Storm’s End,” he says, “Married.”

Words die on his lips. Oberyn had seen Storm’s End only once, but at a distance, inside one of his mother’s ships. The castle didn’t look inviting, or comfortable, although it was meant for neither.

He had heard the story of its builder: Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King during the Dawn Age, who declared a war against the gods after they killed his family and guests, angry at his marriage to their daughter, Elenei. Durran raised six castles, each larger and more formidable than the last, but all were destroyed by storms. Storm’s End was the seventh, a massive fortress, and impregnable too.

Some in the North claimed Durran had help from Brandon the Builder, still a young boy and not the hero from Stark legends. Lyanna must have known that, before going to her husband’s home. That might have helped her feel more at ease with the castle, knowing that maybe her ancestor crossed the same halls she lived in until her death.

Oberyn thinks about the skinny girl he met in Winterfell, four years before. Lyanna Stark was fun and he liked her, despite their age difference. She was funny, with long legs and a desire to make fun and humiliate him, finding a similar response in him. As his sister fell in love with Ned Stark, he grew close to _his_ sister, thinking nothing beyond it.

“You two were close once,” Doran murmurs, his voice careful, “Playmates, I’d say.” He looks at him, with eyes full of trust and understanding, “Do you mind that she’s married?”

Oberyn almost shakes his head, but his pounding heart stops him. He remembers the first time he met Lyanna. They had left Dorne to find him a wife and a husband for Elia, but they came back with only a betrothal for his sister.

 _She_ was never a choice, he remembers. She was already promised to Robert Baratheon. And Oberyn had a promise to himself only. He never liked any of the girls and women presented to him, finding them all too rigid, strict, and haughty. Not at all what he intended for someone who’d be tied to him until death.

“No,” he says, “She did her duty. Why should I mind it?”

Lyanna did her duty. She did it because she had no choice, like his sister.

Elia married Eddard because they loved each other, but also because she had to marry. Their mother needed friends beyond Dorne, and the surest way to make friends is through marriages. They lost their opportunity with Doran, who managed to find a wife from the Free cities — even if Mellario’s hefty dowry more than made up for it. Oberyn and Elia would need to compensate their disadvantage.

And now, because of his sister, the Martells’ closest allies were the Starks, who in turn had a marriage-bound alliance with the Baratheons.

“You are nine and ten,” Doran starts, “And unmarried. Some people would think that strange.”

Oberyn smiles, but his mouth tastes like ashes.

“Subtle, brother,” he says, “Very subtle.”

Doran smiles as well, but his too looks false.

“You understand what I mean,” he says.

“Do I?” Oberyn asks, arching an eyebrow in defiance.

“You are a son of Dorne,” Doran says, “As long as you are a member of House Martell, there will be a woman who wishes to become your wife.”

“Forever, you mean?” Oberyn retorts.

Doran nods.

“Mother receives offers for your hands. Men proclaim their daughters’ beauty, obedience and ability to turn a blind eye to your… _indiscretions_ ,” he says, hesitating on the last word, “Lord Dayne, and Lord Blackwood are quite insistent, from what I hear.”

Oberyn frowns, confused. He had never heard about that.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asks. His mother never mentioned a possible marriage, to either a Dayne or a Blackwood.

“She doesn’t want to pressure you, I imagine,” Doran answers. A sneer curls his lips, poisonous and beautiful, “She wants you to do whatever you want. She wouldn’t dare to hurt her pretty babe’s feelings.”

Oberyn blushes without meaning to. Doran is ten years older than him, but he and Elia are so close in age that it is all too easy to forget that he is the youngest. The babe. His mother’s favorite, without a doubt.

He was born as Princess Loreza neared her fortieth nameday. After two brothers lost their lives before his birth, his mother grew attatched to him and Elia, afraid of losing them as she did Mors and Olyvar, but more so to him. He remembers her pulling him into her arms as a young boy, letting him sit on her lap for hours on end, as his father did the same to Elia.

He wondered what would happen, if his mother reached him during the day and demanded he find a bride. Who would he choose?

The Tullys had a second daughter, a young girl called Lysa. He was only a second son, not in line to anything, but would she be an option? His mother once offered him as a husband to Cersei Lannister, who was the Hand’s only daughter.

And the Daynes. Ashara had been a close companion of his sister in their days of girlhood and a fine girl. When her father was one of her mother’s councilors, they played together at the Water Gardens, and treated each other courteously. Highborn and from a family loyal to House Martell. Her brother Arthur was in the Kingsguard, while Lord Ali was once considered a husband for Elia. A sickness had forced her to stay in Starfall when his sister wed and, after that, It’d make sense for them to be wed, even if neither of them ever considered.

Oberyn never wanted to marry. With three bastard daughters, it was clear that he was not made for it. Oberyn wants freedom, he wants _choice._ Sometimes, he wants to get on a boat and travel the world and not have any woman running after him to stop him.

“Do _you_ want me to marry?” he asks, looking at his brother.

Doran doesn’t shrug, but his face looks relaxed, and unworried.

“I want what helps the family,” he says, “If your marriage will advance the interests of House Martell, then yes.”

Oberyn nods, his stomach knotting inside his belly. Somehow, he feels scolded, and like a child all over again. Despite his tone, his brother’s words sounded like an ultimatum, a demand, really. Doran never asked for things, he had you do as he bid. It is why he will be Prince of Dorne and, when he does ascend to their mother’s throne, Oberyn will find himself inside a sept, wed to a woman chosen by Doran.

* * *

Raena smacks her lips open as she struggles against her blanket. She turns her head slightly, seeking out the warmth of a teat, and Elia helps her, unlacing her bodice just enough. She puts her breast inside her daughter’s mouth, and the girl suckles sleepily. Her eyes are closed, still swollen from birth, and her chubby cheeks are red from the new blood flowing underneath.

Ned strokes her face as she eats, his knuckle soft against her brown skin. There is a satisfied smile on his lips, and his eyes are glinting. He is lying next to Elia, with their daughter between them, and his entire body seems relaxed.

“She is strong,” Elia whispers, amazed by her little girl’s forceful pull of her nipple.

Everyone seemed to love her. Her mother, his father, the servants. Elia’s nieces spent hours the previous day, cooing over their new cousin, amazed by her tiny hands and shining eyes. Arianne giggled when Elia placed her daughter carefully on her small lap, her mother by her side to help secure the two girls. The future Princess of Dorne pressed kisses to her cousin’s forehead, completely in love.

“Is she coming to live with us, grandmother?” Nymeria asked, as Princess Loreza told them to leave for bed.

Elia could have sworn she saw a sad look pass her mother’s face before it returned to its usual naturalness, and she shook her head.

“No, my dear,” she said, “Raena will live here with her father.”

“Why?” Obara asked, unusually showing an interest in anything beyond her spear and training.

“Because she is a Stark, darling,” Loreza answered, her voice unwavering, “Not a Martell, or a Sand. Her place is here in Winterfell.”

“Oh,” Nymeria said, at the same time Arianne piped up in a high voice, “We will be princesses together!”

Elia understood what she meant immediately. Only two years old, and Arianne already knew her fate: to rule Dorne as the eldest child of Prince Doran. Her young mind couldn’t understand that the laws in Dorne didn’t apply to the North, and that if Elia bore a son, Raena would never rule Winterfell.

“If the gods see fit, my love,” Princess Loreza responded, leaning heavily on her cane, “But you will both always be princesses in my heart.”

“Yes, she is,” Ned answers, driving her attention back to the present, “And thriving.”

Elia nods, pleased. Her heart had been clenched inside a cold fist since giving birth, afraid that any day, she’d receive the news that her darling daughter had perished from a fever or illness. She heard many stories growing up, from the servants in Sunspear and the Water Gardens, about her older brothers. Mors, who never truly developed, weak from birth, and dead before his first nameday.

And Olyvar. Sweet Olyvar, with his gentle giggles and attentive green eyes. Her septa said he was big, bigger than Doran had been, and her mother was the one who found his little body when she went to greet him early in the morning. _Babes died_ , the maester explained to Princess Loreza, _sometimes without a reason_.

“She will live,” Elia murmurs, rubbing Raena’s soft foot, “By the Mother’s mercy, she will live.”

Ned smiles, his eyes glinting and relaxed. He looks at Raena, and then at Elia, with an expression full of love in his traces. He presses his lips to Elia’s, a simple kiss without a hint of desire underneath.

When they separate, Elia smiles, her cheeks flushing with color. Ned smiles, caressing her cheek with his hand, and then he looks down, back to Raena.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers.

Elia nods and tears burn her eyes. She doesn’t think she has ever been this happy. Even in Dorne, nothing compared to this _blissful_ existence.

“Yes, she is,” she says, and hesitates, words catching in her throat, “Are you disappointed that she’s a girl?”

If this were Dorne, Raena would be the undoubted heir to Winterfell, as Ned’s eldest child, but the North followed the laws of the Iron Throne, as well as their own, and no woman had ever ruled Winterfell in her own right. As regents, maybe. For others, always, but never for themselves.

Ned shakes his head.

“I don’t think I could ever be disappointed in such a blessing from the gods,” he says, voice soft and loving. Elia smiles.

Raena’s mouth goes slack on her nipple, a sign that she’s full and completely asleep. Elia adjusts the blankets around her small body and places her breast back inside her dress. Ned looks at their daughter with love in his eyes, pressing a kiss against her soft head.

“I have something for you,” he says, leaving the bed. Elia follows his movement with her eyes as he walks around the chambers, going to a writing desk pressed against the corner.

He moves something, opening a little box and closing soon after. When he turns back to her, he’s holding something in his hands, although she can’t see what it is.

“What is it?” Elia asks.

“A gift,” he says, sitting back on the bed, “Somehow, I convinced Robert to help me.”

“Robert?” she asks, confused. Elia tries to sit up, but her body aches whenever she does a sudden movement, still healing from the trials of labor. After a while, she gives up, and lays back on the pillows behind her.

“Yes,” he says, “He brought it when he came to wed Lyanna.”

“Oh,” Elia says, remembering her husband walking to his best friend, asking if he had ‘it’.

“Yes,” Robert answered, before he greeted Elia and her six moon’s turn bump, “You worry too much.”

Ned smiles and kneels on the bed. He opens his hands slowly, and Elia sees a chain first, silver in color. As he reveals the contents in his palms, she notes that it’s two necklaces, with similar round pendants the size of quail eggs. The pendants were oval and had a figure ornated in the metal, although they were different from each other; a speared sun, she quickly realized, and a running direwolf. Martell and Stark.

“A part of me knew it was going to be a girl,” Ned starts, smiling, “So I had these made. One for you, one for her.”

A smile bubbles on Elia’s lips and she struggles to sit up, reaching out with a hand. Ned laughs at her eagerness and places the Martell necklace in her open palm. The metal is cold and smooth, excluding the elevation in the form of a speared sun. Elia rubs her thumb over it, amazed by it.

“It’s beautiful,” she says and puts the necklace over her neck, the chain long enough to fit, “I love it.”

Ned smiles pleased with himself. He looks at Raena, and then at the necklace still in his hands.

“She can wears hers when she is older,” he says, but he still bends over, placing the pendant and chain on Raena’s soft chest, “If we are blessed with more daughters, they shall have the same necklace as she does.”

Elia’s smile grows, “I’m sure they will love it.”

He leans forward, pressing their lips together, and his kiss tastes like dornish wine.

* * *

Aliandra Blackmont steps forward, a beaming smile on her plump face. Her ivory dress shines in the candlelight, black hair pulled into a tight braid, and she holds her younger brother’s arm as he leads her to the altar.

Wylis Manderly stands near Septon Chayle, wearing his house’s green and blue and holding a wedding cloak bearing a white merman. His yellow hair was brushed neatly over his head, although his mustache and lack of beard does little to hide his double chin. His father sits by his side, at a place of honor next to Lord Richard, and Wyman has a pleased smile on his face.

“Every northerner wishes for a bride from Winterfell,” Ned said earlier, when explaining the quick and multiple offers for her ladies’ hands, “Even the loyalists.”

Elia looks at her husband, standing beside her in the sept. Ned stares forward, his mouth set in a tight white line. He doesn’t seem to notice her gaze on him, but his hands itch towards her, and their fingers intertwine. A warmth sets in Elia’s heart, and she smiles, her eyes flying over the room.

Aliandra and Wyman smile at each other as the septon ties a ribbon around their wrists. The bride’s black eyes are watery, and Elia remembers how her friend was desperate for a husband. She was the third child, youngest sister of a ruling lady with three children already by the time she came to power. Not an important player in the marriage game.

Her other ladies, Myriah and Sylvia are standing side-by-side. Myriah is wearing a lovely dark-blue dress, with her hair bound in a braid, while Sylvia has a yellow dress on, both garments complimenting their light brown skin.

Medger Cerwyn, Myriah’s betrothed, stands near her, every so often sending her interested looks, although she hardly notices them. He is closer in age to Lord Rickard than to his future wife, with a daughter a little younger than Benjen, but with no male heir to inherit his holdings, he didn’t hesitate to ask for the hand of a woman with seven siblings and a long history of female fertility.

And Sylvia, who’d soon travel to the Last Hearth for her own wedding with Jon Umber, bites her lip nervously at the sight of her friend marrying. Only six and ten, the youngest of Elia’s dornish ladies, she is also the most excited for her married life, besides Aliandra. Her intended is not present at the wedding, though, due to a rogue of bandits scaring a few villages on his lands.

Benjen is next to his brother, sending nervous looks to Barbrey Ryswell at the other end of the building. Their betrothal had been announced a fortnight prior, although no date was set for the wedding. Benjen’s face is pale, while Barbrey looks at the bride and groom with a strange intensity. As if imagining her own matrimonial, a few years away.

Elia looks at her future goodsister, the girl she will be expected to treat as well as she treats Doran and Obery. She is pretty, but youthful. Quite short next to her brothers and father, with shining brown eyes and brown hair twisted in a knot high on her head.

Her sister has recently married Lord Bolton, who failed to come to the wedding. Elia heard enough stories about the Boltons and their famed keep called the Dreadfort. Flaying had been outlawed in the North for centuries before the arrival of Aegon and his sisters, but rumors spread like wildfire, and every rumor has a hint of truth behind it.

Barbrey, as if noticing Elia’s gaze on her, turns her face slightly. Their eyes meet for a second and Elia notices her more defined features. She has round cheeks, still carrying the baby fat from childhood, and a long nose. Somehow, she reminded Elia of Lyanna Stark: young, but not naïve. Half-child, half-woman. Thrust into the adult world by bigger powers, a position that fits ill.

Elia turns away, looking back at the bride and groom. Wylis has removed the yellow maiden cloak off Aliandra’s shoulders and replaced it with the Manderly’s blue coat. They seal their union with a kiss, and polite clapping fills the tiny sept at Winterfell.

Ned looks at her, a pleased smile on his face.

“What a beautiful wedding,” she murmurs, and his smile grows.

“Not as beautiful as ours,” he replies. Ned offers her his arm, and Elia takes it, placing a hand over his doublet sleeve.

The bride and groom leave the sept first, before Lord Rickard and Ser Wylis’ grandmother follow, arm-in-arm, and Lord Wyman and Lady Jeyne lead each other out. As heir to Winterfell, Ned follows the liege of White Harbor, with her by his side.

“Lady Aliandra looks happy,” he murmurs as they walk to the Great Hall.

“She does,” Elia responds.

“I’m sure she will be very pleased with White Harbor,” he says, “It’s quite a beautiful place.”

“Yes,” Elia says, “I know. I’ve been there quite a few times.”

Ned frowns, as if trying to remember her first visit to the North, and then when they returned from Dorne after their first wedding.

“Don’t you remember it, my love?” she asks, a teasing tone to her voice.

He smiles after a while, “Oh, yes. Of course I remember.”

Before she can respond him, they enter the Great Hall, where servants had lit a thousand candles to light the room. Ned leads her to the high table, to their honorable seats besides Lord Rickard. Lord Manderly and his family will sit on the other side of the table, while Aliandra and Wylis shall have their own private seats in front of them; closer to the area destined for dancing and scandalously intimate. Elia doesn’t see Benjen anywhere in the hall, and his seat remains empty.

“Won’t we dance?” Elia asks, sitting down.

Ned frowns slightly, he only dances for her, before his face softens again as he looks at her, “Later,” he says, “My father has asked me to make acquaintance with some of the lords. Afterwards, we may dance.”

Elia nods, without smiling. Some of the guests hadn’t come for her own northern wedding, each with their own personal reasons, and so it made sense that her goodfather desired his new heir to be on good terms with those that will one day be Ned’s vassals and bannermen.

“Of course,” Elia murmurs, “I shall make the same, then, but for their wives and daughters.” She smiles.

Ned slides his fingers down to her hand, before raising it to her mouth. He presses his lips against the back of her hand softly, smiling slyly.

Aliandra and Wylis sit next to each other, holding hands. Ser Wylis’ round head hangs low as his new wife whispers something in his ear. Her dark hair is a stark contrast to his blonde curls, but, somehow, they fit together. Elia watches them silently as Ser Wylis stands up, blushing furiously.

He reaches forward with a hand, his movements stilted and awkward, but Aliandra smiles and stands up as well, accepting his silent request to dance. Her cheeks are filled with color, either from happiness or embarrassment, and she intertwines her fingers with his.

Ned leans in, his hot breath gushing against the side of her face as he whispers in her ear, “Do you see that man?” he points with his head to a tall knight, sitting between Lord Cerwyn and Lord Mormont. He has a close-cropped bear and a hook nose. His long dark hair falls around his face. He is familiar, although not truly. Elia thinks he has a common face, shared by so many others inside the Great Hall of Winterfell, “That is Tytos Blackwood. He rules Raventree Hall.”

“He is a rivermen,” Elia murmurs, amazed. Lord Tytos seems to feel her gaze on him, and he looks at her. He has black eyes, she sees, but gentle, somehow. “What is he doing here?”

“My father considers him a friend,” he says, “If Lyanna hadn’t been meant for Robert, maybe we’d see a Stark-Blackwood married, like Black Aly and Lord Cregan.”

Elia nods, but, despite his careful answer, things still don’t make sense in her head, “He came all this way to the wedding of one of my ladies? Aliandra isn’t a Stark, and I doubt her sister is close with Lord Blackwood.”

Ned smiles, “Cheeky,” he says, but shakes his head, “He arrived this morning. Had a message from his overlord to my father. Lord Tully is procuring a betrothal for his second daughter to Jaime Lannister. With him, Rhaegar shall have five great houses by his side.”

She nods, mind far from the feast. She hasn’t thought about Jaime Lannister in years, since her mother took her and Oberyn to Casterly Rock in an attempt to betroth her to the young heir. Lord Lannister rudely rebuffed Princess Loreza’s offer, even going so far as to offer his second son to Elia in a clear attempt to offend the Martells.

A part of her is upset that the Hand thought a second daughter to be more worthy of his golden son than her, a Princess in her own right, but Elia shakes the feeling off.

“Lord Tywin and the King are close friends,” she murmurs. Despite their current disagreements, King Aerys and Lord Tywin had been close as brothers since their boy days, alongside the deceased Lord Baratheon, “Mayhaps it won’t even come close to a war.”

“Yes,” Ned says, keeping his voice low, “Ser Elbert writes to me often. He thinks Rhaegar will call for a Great Council and claim his father’s madness has run too deep. He says the Young Dragon will claim a regency for himself.”

“That’s good,” Elia answers, “Perhaps the tourney Lord Whent will throw someday is only a lie meant to placate the King.”

“Most likely,” Ned answers, and then looks at Lord Tytos once again.

“You should talk to him,” Elia whispers, “It would be rude not to.”

Ned nods, not saying anything more. He kisses the back of her hand once more and stands up, walking to Lord Blackwood’s table, where he sits next to Lord Mormont. The four men begin to discuss something that Elia can’t hear or understand.

A servant fills her goblet with wine, and, before the young woman could leave, Elia turns her head slightly to speak, “Please ask Lady Barbrey Ryswell to come sit with me.”

The girl curtsies slightly, “Yes, my lady.”

She leaves, walking to the table Barbrey shares with her brothers and father, whispering something in the young girl’s ears. Elia tries to smile when Barbrey looks at her, their eyes meeting, but somehow, she feels like it came off forced, and awkward.

Barbrey stands up, smoothing down the skirts on her blue dress, and walks to Elia. Her face is neutral, with her mouth set in a pink line.

“Lady Stark,” she says, curtsying lowly.

“Lady Barbrey,” Elia says, smiling gently. She points to the empty seat beside her, “Sit, please. Let us talk. We are to be sister soon, and I will have us be close.”

Barbrey smiles, obeying rather quickly. She sits in Benjen’s seat, placing her hands on her lap. Elia can see the freckles peppered on her white nose, and the shine on her brown doe eyes. She is not yet beautiful, but Elia is sure that she will be, someday.

Words fall on her mouth and she struggles to think of something to say. She never had a sister, only brothers, and Lyanna Stark, who had been her goodsister for nearly two and a half years, would never allow anyone to speak before she had a chance.

She tries for the obvious pleasantries, certain that more intimate question will come later: “Is this your first time in Winterfell, Lady Barbrey?”

The girl shakes her head, “No, I’ve come here before. When I was younger.”

Elia raises her head and takes a sip of her dornish red, “Really? How was it?”

“My father took my sister Bethany and I for the harvest fest when I was twelve, at the start of winter,” she murmurs, eyes fleeting to Lord Rickard Stark, who whispers something to Lord Wyman, “My father wanted one of us to charm Brandon Stark. Didn’t matter who. After Lord Rickard promised Lord Brandon to Lady Catelyn and you wed Lord Eddard, he married my sister off, but kept his hopes for me. My father always wanted to have Stark grandchildren.”

Elia finds herself loss for words. An apology is on the tip of her tongue She knows that Rickard would never marry his eldest son to a bannermen’s daughter. He hoped for a southern alliance to end the days of the Mad King, and, unfortunately, Barbrey and her sister couldn’t offer that.

“It seems your father will get what he wants after all,” Elia says.

“Yes,” Barbrey answers, “I don’t think he expected Lord Rickard to accept his offer. He is very pleased.” She looks at her father, who seems to be on his third horn of ale, while holding his son’s shoulder warmly.

“I imagine so,” she says, “My father was very happy about my wedding as well. It is a father’s duty.”

Barbrey smiles, her eyes glinting. A servant places a goblet in front of her and fills it with wine, but the young lady barely looks at it. Her cheeks are round and flushed with something other than drink. She looks at the guests again. Lord Wylis twirls Aliandra, making her giggle, while Medger Cerwyn boldly leads Myriah Manwoody to a private dance between the two.

Elia looks at Barbrey and thinks about her sister, Bethany Ryswell. She had never met the woman, but her mind tries to form her face even so, imagining Barbrey’s traces, but sharper and older, with Lord Ryswell’s gray eyes.

“Is your sister married here in the North?” she asks, although the question sounds silly in her mind. If Rodrik Ryswell wished for Starks in his descendants, then he’d have her close, for her own children to potential brides and grooms for those born in Winterfell.

“She is Lady Bolton now,” Barbrey explains and her face twitches. It’s very subtle, and hardly noticeable, but Elia catches it all the same. An expression made of both fear and disgust before she quickly replaces it with a relaxed and neutral look, void of negative emotions, “She has a little boy. Domeric. He’s sweet and growing fast. He turned two namedays at the beginning of the year. We visited her and the babe before we came here,” Barbrey smiles, “At my insistence.”

Elia had heard enough stories about the Boltons. In the two years spent between her meeting Ned and their actual wedding, she had tried to learn as much as she could about the Starks and their history. The Boltons seemed a constant figure throughout the millenniums, both as rivals, vassals, and rebels to her goodfamily.

They ruled the Dreadfort, and were one of the Stark’s most powerful bannermen, as well as the most envious. The Boltons had old traditions of flaying and killing Starks, as well as wearing the skins of defeated princes as cloaks. Elia found the stories about the wars between the Red and Winter Kings so disturbing, she had found herself closing the history book and taking a whole fortnight to open it again.

“I have never met Lord Bolton,” Elia starts, struggling with the words. _Flaying has been outlawed for centuries!,_ a voice shouted in her ear, _You are acting like a scared little child,_ “But I’m sure your father had your sister’s best interests at heart when he made the match.”

“Maybe so,” Barbrey says. She looks at Elia and then at her father, lips stuck beneath her upper teeth, “I don’t like him.”

Elia frowns, “Why not?”

“He is frightening,” Barbrey explains in rushed whispers, as if Roose Bolton could come running inside to take his revenge for bad-mouthing him. He had been invited to the wedding, but, since he neglected to come to _Elia_ ’s northern marriage, she hadn’t been surprised when he sent his apologies and explained he had to take care of his wife, “When you meet him, you will understand. He is untrustworthy. He presents himself calm, and a good northern. The peasants living in his land will claim he is just and law-abiding. Criminals are gone and their children are protected, but there is something wrong with him. His eyes are dead.”

“Barbrey…”

Barbrey leans forward and holds Elia’s hand tightly.

“My sister told me a story. A woman came to the Dreadfort soon after Domeric was born. Bethany had been ill for a time after giving birth, but she felt better at night and went to see the babe. She was walking along the castle with him in his arms when she heard the conversation. Lord Bolton and a woman, who was screaming.” Barbrey looks down at her own hands, “My sister is a good wife, Lady Stark, but she felt curious, and had been ill for a time. Stuck in bed without anything to do and... Bethany always had a penchant for gossips.”

“Why was the woman screaming?” Elia asks, curiosity itching in her belly.

“She had a baby. Lord Bolton’s son, and claimed she would go to Lord Stark for justice if he didn’t provide for his child,” Barbrey explains, “My sister says she stayed there in the shadows, silent and afraid, with her own son sleeping in her arms, when Lord Bolton called for his most loyal guards. One man took the child from the woman, leaving the room with his whimper trailing behind, while her husband took his trusted dagger and had her tongue cut out. The next day, she heard some washerwomen claim that the river who runs behind the Dreadfort was too dirty to wash clothes, and red.”

Elia places a hand on her open mouth, too shocked to speak. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest, painfully and forcefully. Her mind races and she can’t think.

“That’s impossible,” she murmurs, “That’s…” _illegal,_ she thinks, but not every man follows the law.

 _And why would the woman need to seek justice from the Starks?,_ the thoughts are painful in her mind. She struggles to speak and to think without imagining a baby with Tyrion’s face thrown in the river by a man who didn’t care about him.

“My sister wouldn’t dare to betray her husband. He treats her well, but she fears him. And Domeric..” Barbrey takes a deep breath, and her shoulder relax forcefully, “I’m telling you this, Lady Stark, because you and your husband must never trust Roose Bolton. There is something wrong with him that no god could ever fix.”

Elia lays her hand over Barbrey’s, her touch gentle like a sister’s, “Thank you for your candor. And for your kindness.”

Barbrey smiles and stands up, curtsying as she returns to her father’s side. Before she can seat herself, however, Rodrik Ryswell stands up. He is clearly drunk, stumbling on his own feet, and raises a horn of ale. He opens his mouth and speaks, booming voice travelling through the Great Hall, even above the music.

“My lords let us have a toast!” he says, voice rolling with his excessive drink. The music stops and everyone looks at him, struggling to find their own cups of wine and ale. Elia curls her hand around her goblet of wine half-full and waits, “To Aliandra Blackmont, the new Lady of Manderly, and to my daughter Barbrey, who will soon be wed to Benjen Stark!” The men shout in agreement, and Elia can see Lord Rickard looking around the room for his youngest son, “May the gods bless them both with sons within the year!” Elia frowns, and looks at Aliandra, who is blushing, “To the future Lords of White Harbor and Winterfell!”

She acts before she thinks, body moving in its own accord. Elia drags her chair back, wood scratching against the stone floor, and the silence makes it sound ten times bigger. She stands up, heart racing inside her chest, as everyone looks at her. She turns to Rodrik Ryswell, who is smiling the smile of someone too drunk to understand what he has done. Ned, who is sitting by Lord Cerwyn, seems too shocked to act and his body moves slowly, standing up.

Elia holds her goblet of wine tightly, before suddenly turning the object downwards, allowing the drink to fall freely on the ground. Her dress is surely stained, but she doesn’t care. Her body is burning, and she feels as if the sun of Dorne is inside her, guiding her movements.

A Great Hall filled with a hundred men and no one says anything as she exits the room, dragging her skirts. The servants dare not to cross her path and Elia walked; feet hard against the ground. She didn’t know where she was going, maybe to Raena’s room, so she could embrace the little heiress and smell her sweet smell. Her daughter grows bigger each day, having learned how to smile only a week before, and Elia knows that seeing her gentle face would make every hurt feel better. Two months had passed since her birth and each moment spent with her is blissful to Elia. With Raena, there is no worries, only love.

And yet now she worries about her. She realizes she has been worrying since Maester Walys pulled her out, as Elia drifted in and out of consciousness. The old maester placed the babe on Elia chest as a midwife untied her bodice to allow for nursing, and she had cried alongside her daughter; both for relief, and fear. She was not out of the woods yet.

Walys had a smile on his face as he proclaimed she had given birth to a girl, and Ned pressed kisses to her sweaty forehead as Oberyn stroked down her arms and Elia couldn’t help the thought that popped inside her head. An instinct bred in her after years of watching her mother rule Dorne with a younger legitimate brother by her side.

As Raena fed for the first time in her life, Elia thought, _I have brought forth the future Lady of Winterfell._

In Dorne, women inherited on the same grounds as men did, but this was not Dorne. Lord Rickard had it explained to her once her pregnancy was announced. If she gave birth to a girl, and then a boy, the son would inherit the North before his sister, as that was the law they followed.

Even of months telling herself that, Elia still couldn’t believe it. Abide by it. In her heart, Raena would always be the heiress, even if she gave birth a boy later.

Elia sometimes had intrusive thoughts. Half-prays that she didn’t finish. She thought it would be best if she only had daughters, at times. Girls who would never be a threat to their sister. Some would call her selfish. To deprive her husband of a son, even if only in her mind, but Elia knows that she’d never be able to choose between a daughter and a son.

It is silly, and stupid. Maybe the gods would make Raena be her only daughter, although anyone would hardly saw a house full of boys as punishment.

She hears footsteps coming her way and realizes she has stopped walking, leaning against a wall. Elia stands up straighter, thinking it be Ned, and looks at the other end of the corridor.

“Princess?” someone calls and Elia almost bolts in surprise. No one in Winterfell calls her Princess, beyond…

It’s not Ned who comes her way, with sweet words and apologies, but Myriah Manwoody and Sylvia Dalt. Their eyes meet and her friends run to Elia, arms opened. Their eyes are trusting and understanding, black eyes of Dorne. Girls who came with her to wed northmen to deepen the relations between the two countries.

Sylvia hugs Elia at the same moment that Myriah pulls a kerchief from her pocket, pressing it to Elia’s wet cheeks. She flushes shamefully at the notion that she hadn’t even noticed her tears, but her friends say nothing of it.

“He is a drunk and an idiot,” Myriah proclaims, and Elia almost weeps harder at her boldness. _Dornish_ boldness, “Ignore him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Yes,” Sylvia Dalt says, “He was an embarrassment. His sons dragged him to his rooms as soon as you left. Ned would’ve followed you, but Lord Stark is talking to him. Calming him down, I suppose.”

Elia shakes her head as her friends stroke her arms, “It’s what everyone thinks. Raena’s position in the inheritance is precarious at best. There is precedence to an uncle taking a niece’s place.”

“May the Others take precedence,” Myriah declares, with all the fierce nature of her father, who was Elia’s oldest uncle, “You are still the heir’s wife. Your children will rule the North, no matter what Lord Ryswell says.”

“But…” Elia hesitates, and she feels as if the world itself is crashing down. Her ladies understand much of her struggles, but not everything. They don’t understand how Ned plans a war, and how he could die before they produced a son. She thinks about Rhaegar and curses him and his timing, appearing at her wedding and asking for their support against his father. They never had any chance to enjoy being together, without the worries of a Mad King. Rhaegar’s shadow lingers over Eddard and Elia, “This is a strange land to me. I love it, because Ned loves it, but it is strange. I have few friends or counsel. Those that defer to me do so because of my husband. If Ned were to die, I’d have no powerful allies to support my daughter’s claim.”

“You’d have us,” Sylvia says and her eyes gleam, “And our husbands.”

“Yes,” Myriah murmurs. A proud grin takes her mouth and her eyes darken, “I will be wed to Lord Cerwyn in a moon’s turn. Sylvia will soon go to Last Hearth, and we will do everything in our power to turn them to your side.” She kisses Elia’s cheek, “I will be sweet and gentle. Obedient to Lord Medger, and willing. He has a young daughter, but if I give him the son he craves for, then he will owe me everything.”

“And Lord Umber is respected,” Sylvia says, “His house is feared by half the North. They call him the Greatjon and I will make him love me so much that he shan’t be able to refuse me anything. If the gods see fit to take your husband before you have a son, he shall respect her rights.”

“You should have seen Aliandra’s face when you left, and Ser Wylis’,” Myriah murmurs, “They will support you too, I’m sure they will. The Manderlys are the richest of the northern houses.”

Sylvia smiles, stroking a hand down Elia’s back, “You also have Dorne by your side. Your brothers would die before they let anything happen to your or Raena.”

Elia smiles, and more tears flow down her cheeks, but they don’t taste bitter.

“Thank you,” she says,

Myriah’s smile softens, “We are not in Dorne, but you are our princess. Our loyalty is to you. Now and always.”

“Now and always,” Sylvia echoes.

Elia finds Ned at her rooms. He is standing as if lost, looking at her bed and around the room. When he hears her enter, he turns and walks in her direction, arms raised to hold her.

“I do not want to speak of this,” she says, walking to him. Elia hugs her husband, feeling his warm arms wrapping around her, “The night has been trying enough. I don’t wish to relieve it in words.”

“And what do you want to do?” Ned asks as she steps back, his voice soft and trusting.

“To forget,” Elia whispers, “Make me forget.”

Ned stares at her, eyes wide and dark. The gray has been overtaken by the black of his pupils, and he looks like a hunter, ready to take his prey.

His fingers caress hers, intertwining their thumbs. He strokes her knuckles gently, his eyes never leaving hers, and Elia feels her cheeks flush with color at the intensity of his stare. He looks at her in that moment like never before, with something akin to devotion hidden in his irises.

“I love you,” he whispers, words hanging over his lips.

She heard someone say once, many a year ago, that to declare your love too often would cause the words to lose meaning. They’d become trivial, not as important as they once were. For a long time, she thought that person was right, but how could that be, when her heart still swells whenever Ned profess his love?

“I love you too,” she answers and Ned smiles, shyly, “I have loved you since I was seven and ten, and I will love you still when I am seventy.”

“So much love,” he murmurs in a strange tone, and Elia arches an eyebrow in response, confused, “You are small. Are you sure there is enough space inside you for that many emotions?”

Elia smiles, “My love for you replenishes. Every morning and every night, it begins, anew.”

His smile grows, pink blossoming beneath his pale skin. He places a hand on her cheek, thumb rubbing her face slowly, softly. She thinks he means to push her face to his and kiss her. Elia even parts her lips slightly in preparation for it, but, instead, he simply lays their foreheads together, eyes still boring into her.

“You looked so beautiful tonight,” he says, and then shakes his head, “You _are_ beautiful.”

“Thank you, husband,” she replies. Elia touches his blue doublet, wiping her hands over his shoulders as if removing invisible wrinkles, “You look so handsome. I told you that dressing well would not hurt anybody.”

He laughs, shaking his shoulders, “I feel ridiculous.”

Elia pouts.

“Don’t,” she says, “Even men such as yourself should take care to look their very best.”

“Such as myself?” Ned asks, arching an eyebrow, “Am I supposed to take offense in that?” Despite his words, she can notice how his tone is playful, and a smile still curls his lips.

“Why should you?” Elia asks, “It is not unmanly to listen to your wife every once in a while.”

“Oh, is that right?” he says, smiling darkly, “So, I feel, as your husband, it is my duty to reprehend you.”

Elia almost steps back, and only Ned’s hand in hers stops her from doing so, and she raises her brows, confused.

“Reprehend me?” she repeats.

She remembers her mother and father, then. There was no doubt at the court of Sunspear as to whom truly reigned in their marriage and, although her mother often took his counsel when it came to ruling Dorne, many a time she’d send him away from meetings of her advisors whenever their opinions differed. Elia remembers finding him at the library in Sunspear, or near the kitchens with an apple on his hand; he never looked upset at Princess Loreza for his expulsion, or even angry. He was always calm, and always in love.

They hardly ever fought and when they did, Elia remembers how it was always her father to seek out her mother, with a hundred new promises and a hundred ways to mend what broke between them.

“Your mother is a difficult woman to please, my love,” he’d say, the often times she asked him about it, “I just have to try harder, if I wish to be worthy of a place beside her.”

She blinks and looks at her husband. They are in the North, not in Dorne, living in his family’s ancestral seat. Their daughter carries his name, as will any other child the gods decide to give them. And if Ned wishes to reprehend her, no matter the reason, then she is powerless to stop her.

But he smiles, not realizing the anxiety pooling in her belly, and caresses her cheek with his hand.

“Yes,” Ned replies, and leans in to whisper in her ear, “For upstaging the bride. So very rude.”

She smiles, unable to keep her happiness from bubbling to the surface.

“Don’t smile,” he says, smiling as well, “I am very cross with you.”

Elia rolls her eyes and caresses Ned’s hand with her own, intertwining their fingers. His palm is sweaty, she realizes, and hot, the blood rushing underneath. He always had warm hands, ever since they first met, four years before.

“May I kiss you?” he asks, looking at her eyes, and then her lips. His eyelashes look almost white in the candlelight, burned by the flames.

He looks at her shyly and nervously and she is suddenly reminded of how he is younger than her. Just two years, yes, but it could mean so much, if someone just looked between the lines. She was already walking and talking when he was born.

If they had met earlier, she wonders, would they have fallen in love still? If he were thirteen to her fifteen, would she have followed him into the godswood? Would she have gone against her mother’s wishes and pressed for a betrothal with the second son of Lord Stark? For some reason, she thinks not.

But maybe that is why the gods saw fit to make her mother wait for her trip around Westeros, looking for wives and husbands for her and Oberyn. Because they knew Ned was too young for her at thirteen, and because their marriage had been a decision made personally by them, high godly deities, with Raena being a clear sign of their approval.

“Yes,” she says, tilting her chin up and Ned’s smile grows, as if that was even possible.

He pulls her face to his, pressing their lips together. His kiss is sweet and gentle, like every other one before. It’s calm, and yet, she can feel the taste of desire in his mouth. Elia sighs as she places her hand on his head, stroking the rounded skin of his scalp. His hairs are soft and familiar, and she swallows down his gentle moans, feeling the vibration on her lips.

“Elia,” he sighs, still holding her hand, “I’ve missed you. You can’t understand how much I have missed you.”

“I do,” she replies, leaning their foreheads together, “I do understand.” _I have missed you too,_ goes unsaid, as Ned kisses her back, stopping the words from spilling out her mouth.

His tongue is gentle on hers and she feels him letting go of her hand and face, his nimble fingers finding the lacing on her dress. Elia hesitates, separating their kiss, and Ned looks at her. There is no frustration on his face, only patience. She wets her lower lip and tries to think.

Maester Walys warned her to wait at least a year before conceiving again, to allow her body to recover from such a strenuous birth, and Elia had every intention to follow his advice. The easiest way to prevent a pregnancy was complete abstinence, for an entire year, and most likely, that’s what Maester Walys intended for her to do.

But she can still remember her mother, the day after her wedding. Princess Loreza visited Elia in the morning, soon after Ned stole off to his own room. She explained quite clearly how in some days of the moon’s turn, a woman could couple without worry and no child would result.

Hearing her mother’s voice in her ear, Elia tries to recall if her blood came in the last sennight, or the one before.

“Are you alright?” Ned asks, pulling her out of her musings, “Do you want to stop?”

Elia shakes her head and Ned frowns at that, pouting slightly.

“What’s the problem, then?”, he asks, more confused than worried.

“Be quiet, my love,” she says, placing a hand over his mouth, “I’m trying to think.”

He laughs silently and waits, stroking her waist with his hands. His thumb rubs her hipbone, making it even harder for her to think without her love for him probing the back of her mind. She bites her inner cheek and tries to count the days.

Half a breath later, she removes her hand and kisses him again, having done her calculations. If Ned had any questions, he says nothing, focusing on kissing her in return.

She feels him start to unlace her dress; hands splayed on her back. As the constrictions on her chest lessen, Elia takes in a free breath of air, the first in many hours.

“Better?” Ned asks, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“Much,” Elia replies and moves her hands from his head and face to his chest. She unbuttons his doublet slowly, helping him take it off.

She pulls his inner shirt over his head, leaving him only in his dark breeches.

His chest is lean and smooth, tight muscles moving underneath. Elia slides her hands around it, feeling his skin against hers. Her index finger strokes down the white scar near his left nipple, from when Robert Baratheon went too hard on him the first time they used real swords. She missed that scar, like everything else on him. She missed everything about him. His skin, his body.

She places her palm in the middle of his chest, right over his heart.

“Are you nervous?” she asks, feeling the rapid beating of his organ, pulsing against her hand.

Ned puts his own hand over hers, stroking her fingers gently.

“No,” he replies, “It’s like this because of you. My heart is stronger with you near.”

Elia feels her cheeks burn at his words and she stands on her tiptoes, pressing their mouths together once more. She wraps her arms over his neck, and he places his hands gently on her waist, pulling the seams of her dress slowly.

She must help him with it, taking her corset and bodice off herself. Elia’s shift clings to her body like a second skin, after hours of dancing and sweating in the Great Hall, but Ned doesn’t show any signs of noticing it. He steps back and places his hands on her shoulders.

She stares at him, confused, and a shy smile curls his lips.

“You must turn around, my love,” he says, like it’s obvious, “So I can help you out of your dress.”

“Oh.”

Elia turns, showing him her back, and Ned unlaces the rest of her bodice. Her skirts fall from her waist, without anything to hold them on, pooling by her feet.

She expects him to turn her back again, so they may kiss and undress the rest of each other slowly, but Ned doesn’t. He presses his lips against the curve of her neck, kissing and biting. She knows, without even staring at a looking glass, that her skin is turning red and that there will be a purple bloom on her neck when dawn comes.

For some reason, though, she can’t find it in herself to care about it.

“Ned…” she whispers, as he holds her shoulder, keeping her firm in place.

“Yes?” he replies, sliding his lips to the shell of her ear, “Is there anything you need?”

“Yes,” she says, “ _You._ ”

Elia puts her hands on her own shoulders, reaching the edge of her shift. She pulls it down slowly, exposing her brown breasts, larger than ever, due to her carrying Raena. Ned doesn’t say anything as she undresses herself, only helping her throw the piece of garment on the ground, next to her red gown.

She steps out the pool of clothes, turning back to Ned. Elia stands there, wearing only her smallclothes, reaching out to him.

Ned cups her cheek, placing a hand on the curve of her hip. Raena’s birth changed little on her body, forcing her to continue as slim and frail as ever, although thin pink scars marred her stomach and thighs; an unfortunate aspect of her skin stretching to accommodate her growing babe.

But he doesn’t show any sign of noticing it, or even caring about it. He tilts her head up and kisses her, pulling her body to his. She puts her hands on the lacing of his pants, grabbing the black threads with her fingers.

She undoes his breeches and pulls it down his waist herself, fingers catching on fat deposits around his body.

Elia removes her own smallclothes, and Ned does the same, their lips never separating as they finish undressing. He slides his hands to her legs, caressing her thighs and dipping a finger or two between them. She grabs his shoulders for support, knees going slack with the pleasure bubbling in her lower stomach.

“Bed,” she whispers.

“Yes,” Ned replies, wrapping his arms around her waist. He pulls and she understands his intentions without him saying anything.

Elia takes her feet off the floor and jumps on his lap, holding him tightly to prevent herself from falling. Ned secures her, one hand on her thigh and the other splayed on her back, for support. She tilts his head up, kissing him intently as they walk, blindly moving towards the bed.

Her long black hair sticks to her skin, and Elia tries to push it away, while still kissing Ned. She feels him turn around and sit down on the bed himself, her still on his lap. His member presses against her in the sweetest way, and she sighs, stroking his hair.

“Sweet Elia,” he murmurs, “My wife.”

She kisses his mouth, his cheek, his ear. She presses her lips to his temple and his hairline, kissing the small hairs there. Ned laughs, sliding his hands up and down her body, from her thighs, to her bottom and her back.

“My husband,” she whispers in his ear, “My Ned. Mine. Only mine.”

“Only yours,” he replies to her.

He reaches out between them, fingers finding her clit. He swallows down her moans, as he rubs his thumb on her nub, as well as he can in the tight space available. Heat pools on her groin, dark and wet.

Desire flows through her veins, nourishing her body as if it was blood. She returns her mouth to Ned’s, sliding her hands from his head to his chest. His skin is hot, and his muscles are pulled taut from tension under it.

It has been too long. They had coupled during her pregnancy, but with the passing turns, Elia had found herself too uncomfortable in her own body to continue. And after Raena was born, they decided to stay apart to allow her body to recover in its most bruised parts.

Minutes pass as her body strains under his touch, with her still slobbering over his face. Ned laughs, trying to add a finger inside her. Elia stops him before he can, though, reaching out under them with one of her hands. Ned groans when she takes his member between her fingers and aligns it with her entrance.

“Elia,” he whispers. He kisses her chest as she slips his manhood inside herself, and his hands grab the soft flesh of her bottom, hard enough to leave a mark.

She rides him slowly, but firmly, hands splayed on his shoulders. Ned holds her tightly, like she might attempt to leave him, and groans. He peppers kisses over her hot skin, tasting her sweat.

Elia strokes his hair as she rocks her hips, lips against his hairline, and it takes a second before she realizes that Ned is mumbling something.

“Only you,” he says, teeth scrapping the swell of her breast, “There has never been anyone else for me. Only you. Forever you. My Elia…” He shakes his head, and tilts his chin up, pouting his lips like he wants a kiss, “Since I was five and ten, I have wanted you... _Gods, right there…_ When I saw you for the first time… I thought I was looking at a maiden from one of the stories… I…”

Elia bites his ear in an attempt to keep her scream in, and her entire body shakes. A wave of intense pleasure runs through her veins, curling her toes and numbing her mind. Low groans slip through her teeth, and she whispers Ned’s name so hotly that it sends him over the edge as well.

He holds her tightly afterward, head against her breasts. His hair is slick with sweat and she strokes it gently, turning the locks around her fingers.

“My father will give Moat Cailin to Benjen and Barbrey, once the constructions are over,” he murmurs, “It will be a few years before that happens, though, and they must be wed to live together. The Moat is more ruins than castle, and the reformations for us stopped completely after Brandon’s death.” He strokes a finger down her chest, from the valley between her breasts to her navel, “My father said he will host the wedding in two years, or maybe more. When Benjen is older.”

“I understand,” Elia murmurs. Rickard Stark insisted on holding their own wedding when Ned was eighteen, although they met when he was five and ten. She wouldn’t expect any different for his second son.

“He asks that you consider taking Barbrey in, as a companion,” Ned continues speaking, “Until then, she will live here, with us.” He looks at her, gray eyes full of trust, “Do you mind that?”

Elia thinks about Rodrik Ryswell well into his cups, boasting about a future son of Barbrey ruling Winterfell instead of her daughter, and Barbrey herself, whispering warnings about her goodbrother, the Lord Bolton.

“No,” she says, “Of course not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was planning on adding the tourney of harrenhal on this chapter, but it ended up becoming too long to add the tourney scenes, and i also realized that there would be a chapter (what should have been next one) where i had nothing planned so i decided to mash the two of them together.
> 
> i like barbrey ryswell. i think she is quite good at a lot of things (and im one of those fools that believe she is in the grand northern conspiracy). this time, i hope she wont have any grievances against the starks because of her dead husband's bones.


End file.
